


The Impossible Task of Being Loved

by kazul9



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dystopia, Electrical Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone will be happy in the end I SWEAR, Fighting, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, If you even want to call it parenting, Infection, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic, Pining, Rating May Change, Seriously I've been calling this hurt/comfort: the fic, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Tattoos, Touch-Starved Victor Nikiforov, Trauma, Violence, horrible parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazul9/pseuds/kazul9
Summary: Victor exists in a controlled city, in a controlled life, ruled by his controlling grandfather. It’s been so long since Victor’s had a will of his own that he’s not even sure it exists anymore—he’s not sure he exists.At least until it all falls down around him and the only thing he can see is the warm brown eyes of a stranger—No, not a stranger.His mortal enemy.And his only hope.(Updates every Saturday!)
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 607
Kudos: 336





	1. Chapter 1

Victor is lucky.

At least that’s what he tells himself so he can fall asleep at night.

He could have been born into the dark district. He could be worked to the bone every day until he dies early because all of the electricity that blooms from his fingertips would be drained into one of the mills, exhausting his body and spirit in exchange for barely enough to feed himself.

Instead, Victor’s well off. He’s always dressed finely in outfits that were tailored to his form. He’s never truly known the feeling of what it’s like to go hungry for too long. He doesn’t know anything other than existing in perpetual light, the white walls of his home gleaming the brightest in the entire district, as opposed to the solid darkness that exists past the wall.

Victor’s spoiled and pampered and he’s respected for it.

And it makes him miserable.

Though, really, he should be used to it at this point. His grandfather has spent years trying to train away his unsightly emotions, and to anyone outside of Victor’s own mind, it would seem he was successful. Victor always has a bright, charming smile that he can use—and has used—to seduce anyone and anything, to soften their shells and lure them in. He was taught to embrace that, to let it grow and consume him until nothing remains but a shadow of himself, an outline of the figure he’s supposed to be.

Victor is a prince of the remainder of humanity. He is the heir to The Hive, the final bastion that was formed to keep people safe from the storms of acid rain and lightning so violent that no one can control it.In theory, it should be possible for the lightning at least to be controlled; at the revolution of the world, as everything came tumbling down around them, whatever god or scientist that was out there causing the turmoil of the apocalypse decided to gift humanity the ability to channel the energy inside their bodies outside of themselves—to create lightning. In fact, human electricity is what’s harvested to keep the city running.

Victor’s one of the most powerful wielders of lightning that there is. The blade of his shashka was forged to hold and focus that power, and his mentor, Yakov—a secretly soft man that let Victor get away with far too much—taught him to wield it with a violence and precision that no one can meet.

Well, almost no one.

But the point is, _he_ should be helping to run the city with his energy since he has so much of it. But he doesn’t argue about that anymore. Not after bringing it up with his grandfather resulted in him throwing a chair across the room, and having Victor stay in his chambers for a couple of days in complete isolation. It was the best reaction Victor could have hoped for, in retrospect—but he was young then.

Now, moving across the narrow, dim-lit roads of the dark district with feet so heavy they may as well be made of lead, he feels _old_. He’s only twenty-seven, and he’s well aware of how young that is. Compared to his grandfather, at least; he should outlive him by decades. But once his grandfather is gone, his support will be gone too, and it’s only a matter of time before Victor is assassinated in cold blood. At least right now his grandfather is fine; he even still has a little of that ashy-blonde color in his hair—more golden to Victor’s silver, as he likes to point out.

Victor has a while yet to go before that day.

There are guards moving around Victor, but they might as well be mannequins instead of people. They have no respect for Victor besides the fact that he’ll keep them safe, and Victor doesn’t blame them. Victor’s heard them mutter how they wouldn’t be doing this work if it didn’t put food on the table for their kids.

But why does Victor do this anymore? What does he have left to fight for?

He’s no longer allowed to train with Yakov. All of his closest friends were mysteriously arrested or executed after Victor messed up or didn’t perform to the completely impossible standards asked of him on a daily basis. The only one who remains is…

No, he won’t even think the name. He purposefully stayed distanced from that one to keep his grandfather _away._ The moment Victor’s grandfather suspected that anyone around him was a friend, they were at risk.

Victor will keep his head down, and he’ll do his work for right now. Then maybe he can distance himself more and…

And what? What grand masterplan does Victor have once he’s free of any burdens? How is there any way to escape his grandfather? Even the rebellion that they hunt stands no chance, despite how talented and clever they are.

Victor’s spent a lifetime trying to crawl away from this hell hole, to find even a sliver of a space to call his own, and he’s never broken free. All it ever leads to is losing more of himself every time he tries.

“Are you alright, Mr. Nikiforov?” the guard closest to him—Victor can’t remember names, he can barely remember what he ate for breakfast this morning—leans in to murmur.

A fake grin slides onto Victor’s face before he can even think about it, easy and shallow. “Of course, thank you for asking. Just looking forward to getting this over with and heading home.”

The man hesitates, but then nods. “You don’t like doing this either, do you?”

Victor reaches down, gripping the handle of his sword so tight with a hand shaking so much that it’s a wonder that no one can hear the shashka rattling against its scabbard. He’s _better_ than this. Just because there are only guards around doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t hold himself together—he has no option _but_ to hold himself together. His grandfather’s eyes are everywhere, and he can’t afford to slip up.

“What I like and don’t like is of little importance when my grandfather’s work needs to be done.” Victor keeps the smile plastered to his face, but he’s not so sure it reaches his eyes. The success of a lie depends on the sliver of truth that you need to slide into it—but Victor might have put too much truth into this one.

The guard stares at him for a moment, and then nods, beginning to move away. “Orders are orders. And we’re almost there.”

Victor swallows, but that’s the only outward sign that he gives that his stomach plummets to the ground, smacking onto the pavement beneath his feet.

He hates going on these trips. His uncle knows this, which is why he’s so insistent that Victor goes. Because Victor’s supposed to remember that any form of rebellion is a plague onto their society, a rodent stealing from their precious supplies. And Victor’s in charge of protecting the warehouses of food, so he knows what comes and goes and where it’s headed, he _knows_ that no one will starve if a little gets stolen—that people are going to starve regardless.

But if he doesn’t follow his grandfather’s orders, the last, tiny fragment of what he cares about might be stolen from him. And Victor’s selfish. He’s so _selfish_ —

Victor shakes his head, focusing as he and the team approach one of the large, metal warehouses, glowing with light. It’s dimmer than anything that he’d see closer to home, but if he’s being honest, it’s a bit of a relief on his eyes. It’s a miracle he doesn’t need glasses.

“The door’s lock mechanism is broken. They’re already here,” A guard murmurs, the rest of them adjusting to full alertness.

Victor just lets out a sigh—something that’s a bit heavier than he means it to be, but it doesn’t matter. He just has to finish this and go home and then he can curl up in bed and sleep.

“Let’s move.” Victor draws his sword and steps in front of the others.

His grandfather may be a coward, but no one is dying on Victor’s watch while he’s with them.

Massive barrels of grain rise around them, the walkways above them spindly and spider web-like as they slink quietly into the building and the darkness makes everything murky and ominous.

Victor doesn’t feel the same fear he can feel radiating off of his team, though.

That should probably be concerning, that he just doesn’t _feel_ the same as other people do—but maybe he should be more thankful for that than anything else, considering.

For now, Victor glances around, focusing—

Until there’s a small sound, the shifting of fabric that has no place among Victor’s team.

Victor signals to the others, knowing the generic layout of these places like the back of his hand. They weave through the containers of grain, as stealthy and quiet as the darkness itself. They carefully make their way up onto the metal walkways, Victor moving faster than the rest, unhindered by the bulky anti-lightning armor. It’s helpful when dealing with thugs sometimes, but…

But as Victor gets closer, he’s happy that he chose not to wear it tonight.

Because, somehow, The Hive’s intelligence got wind of more than ordinary thieves making a move on their food storage tonight.

They’ve caught two of Agape’s crew, the most effective and wanted crew of rebels in existence. It’s easy to tell with their uniforms—the elite crew wears shirts without a back, revealing the tattoos of a burning, watercolor phoenix rising from the ashes. They all wear white masks to hide their identity, vague shapes and loose lines painting the face of an animal.

Victor doesn’t recognize one of them, the mask on them looking like a rodent.

But he would recognize The Fox anywhere, even without the two katanas strung at his hips.

They must be desperate. The thought chills Victor, makes him want to turn and run. Agape is The Hive’s biggest problem, their attacks getting bolder and bolder by the day, so for them to come here and steal this, fill up a single bag as small as they’re scooping full…

Victor wants to let them go.

But there are cameras in this building. There are guards around him. And Victor doesn’t know if he can survive any more punishment.

So Victor charges forward, swift and silent, sliding his shashka from its scabbard with barely a whisper and raising it, prepared to swing.

There’s a moment of silence. Someone swears in a language Victor doesn’t know. Then the crying song of blades crashing rings out across the building as The Fox meets Victor’s swing effortlessly.

Something in Victor sparks, threatens to catch. Victor rarely fights to his full potential, able to apprehend most criminals without having to push himself to his limits.

But The Fox is the only one who’s ever matched him. The Fox is the only one with the potential to best him.

Victor leaps back before charging in, swing after swing being blocked by The Fox, avoiding going on the offensive like he normally would. For a moment Victor’s confused—

Until he sees The Fox’s friend heading for the entrance of the building.

Victor raises an eyebrow before pushing his attack, blade swinging faster and faster, his hair rising slightly as the electrical energy between them builds, gathers inside their weapons, their fight illuminated with the potential of what they could do next.

But Victor doesn’t have time for that. Victor aims his blade for The Fox’s weak side, instantly met with a counter—

And Victor sweeps a leg underneath his opponent, knocking them off their feet.

It’s cheap, it’s less than a fighter of this caliber deserves, but if Victor can catch one of Agape’s people…

Well, he’ll never get his grandfather’s approval, but maybe he’ll get a small _break_. Maybe he can have one day without his entire being plucked to pieces, without having his space and his privacy nonexistent, without his grandfather needing more, more, _more_.

The guards finally catch up to them, piling onto The Fox as Victor had hoped; it isn’t enough to stop The Fox, but it will slow him down. It will give Victor a _chance_.

Victor runs across the walkway, leaping down onto the barrels and then landing into a roll before he’s on his feet again. There are only so many ways to come and go from this part of town, and Victor spots a few pieces of fallen grain going down an alleyway, the footsteps of the escaped rebel echoing from it.

Sloppy.

Victor speeds down the dark alley, black buildings looming over him, trapping him and his prey in a series of narrow winding paths until Victor sees the thief. They’re moving slow with the sack of grain. Too slow.

He moves before he even thinks, leaping forward and swinging—

Just as the man ducks.

For a second Victor thinks he must have missed—there wasn’t any drag on the blade. But then the rebel hits their knees against the ground _hard_ , and a second later, there’s the clattering of The Rodent’s mask hitting the ground.

It’s silent for a long moment, but when the person turns, trembling—it’s no rodent, of course it isn’t. They’re what appears to be a boy, even younger than Victor, wide, grey eyes dripping tears down brown cheeks. He doesn’t ask for his life, he doesn’t beg, he doesn’t plead.

But this kid doesn’t want to die.

Victor’s seen people groveling and crying before. He’s even tried to help them before, and he still has the scars to show from it as his own grandfather ordered their guards to restrain him, take him down into the dungeons and see how he likes being a _rebel_ for a couple of nights.

And he knows that he needs to arrest or kill this man in front of him. That he needs to do it right now before The Fox catches up to him.

But he can’t.

Not out of pity, or kindness, but out of a dark, cold, and creeping envy. Out of a bitter jealousy that claws at his gut and makes him want to scream.

Why can’t Victor have even the _illusion_ of freedom when people like this make the choice to live free every day? How is it _fair_? Sure, Victor can run—he’s tried to run. But he never gets far. His grandfather’s eyes and ears are everywhere, after all.

For twenty years, Victor has been losing himself in the wants and the needs of The Hive, giving his mind and his body and his soul to a cesspool of a city. And what has he gotten in return for it? Every time he screws up— _despite_ being perfect most of the time—he loses more freedom. He never goes anywhere without a guard now. He only eats when he’s told to. He only speaks with whom he’s told to speak with. Any friends he’s had before? Dead, exiled, or gone missing. The only connection he has left is to someone he barely even dares to talk to anymore for fear of him getting murdered, and that’s not a friendship. Not anymore.

He has nothing.

He _is_ nothing.

And this boy has more than Victor could ever even imagine.

Victor lets out a strangled shout, hurling his sword at the wall. He knows he’s messed up the blade and will have to spend precious time tonight sharpening it instead of sleeping so that his grandfather doesn’t catch him with a less than perfect weapon, but he doesn’t _care_.

He’s almost tempted to just leave it there to rust, to do _something_ out of that man’s control.

But Victor can’t. He doesn’t want to know what that punishment will be; he can’t survive that.

And he can’t survive living like this either.

So he settles on a compromise.

“Run.” Victor’s voice is gruff with emotions he’s not allowed to have, that he doesn’t know how to feel, and he shoves them away.

“Wh-what?” the boy squeaks out, clutching the grain bag to his chest and scrambling back just a little.

Victor could still take it back. There’s bound to be a punishment in store for him for coming back empty-handed. But what’s the point in resisting it when he’s just going to screw up one day anyway? He’s _human_. He’s going to fuck up.

This time, he can make the _choice_. This boy doesn’t have to die. The grain he holds can go to people who need it, instead of filling the already-fat belly of the nobles, because what commoner can afford even basic staples nowadays? The people in charge of The Hive use people until they’re no longer useful, until they’re _drained_ , and then they just discard them and move on.

And for once, Victor can decide to break that cycle. He can decide to disobey his grandfather, and no one will ever have to know.

Victor will suffer, regardless.

“Go!” Victor’s voice snaps and breaks as he shouts the word, and that’s all the other boy needs.

The rebel snags his mask and trips his way back onto his feet, dragging the heavy sack with him as he goes. Honestly, he’s moving pretty fast for being weighed down so much. He could easily outrun Victor without the sack.

There’s the sound of footsteps next to Victor, obvious and on purpose considering that Victor hadn’t heard a hint of them before.

And then The Fox walks around him, both katanas drawn, staring at him.

This person could kill Victor easily before he reaches his blade. But Victor doesn’t try to take hold of his shashka. He doesn’t want to. He can’t find the strength to.

If he’s going to die, the least he can do is die trying to help the few people who live free _stay_ free.

But The Fox doesn’t raise his blades. Their only movement is the slight tilt of their head as they observe Victor. And the faint light of the alley shifts as they do, sliding through the holes of their mask.

The Fox’s eyes are brown. They’re warm and bright and alive in a way that contrasts with the pale, dead blue of Victor’s own eyes.

And then the rebel turns and runs away on silent feet after their comrade, just as the sound of heavy guard feet begin to ring in the alley.

Victor lets out a long breath, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket, choking off his airflow. He stumbles over to the wall and slides down it, collapsing in a heap next to his shashka.

“Mr. Nikiforov!” One of the guards—the same one that talked to him earlier, he really should learn their names. “Are you okay?”

Victor almost laughs. Who the hell on this planet is okay?

But Victor knows how to play the perfect prince more than he’s ever known himself. So he nods, gasping in a breath as he gestures vaguely after where the rebels disappeared, knowing that the guards will never catch up. “They went that way.”

And that’s it, the lot of them gone, none of them staying to make sure that Victor’s okay. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Victor’s a shiny, gaudy piece to be put on display for others. He’s attractive, and he’s talented in most things he touches. In that way, he’s desirable.

Meaning that no one gets too attached to something so perfect, no one wants someone that can outshine them while standing next to them. Not to mention, everyone knows what’s happened to Victor’s allies.

Everyone knows what happened to his mother and father and grandmother.

And if Victor revealed the scars and scabs underneath all of the glamour, and talent, and luxury?

Well, they already don’t trust him. But at that, they’d run screaming, and…

And Victor just wishes someone had stayed with him. Victor wishes that there was someone who cared enough about him that they might shed a tear if he dies.

But he doesn’t have that.

He can’t have that.

Victor is destined to be alone, and it’s about time he gets used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Backless clothing makes no sense in a battle  
> Also me: But… the tattoo a e s t h e t i q u e
> 
> Anyway! Welcome to what has been lovingly called “Toungry Enemies” for a long time now (touch + hungry = toungry). This idea didn’t start out as a personal story to me, but it’s developed into one as 2020 has slapped me in the face with how deep my trauma runs and how long I’ve been ignoring it. I know quite a bit about trauma from certain things before this year, but please note that what is portrayed in this fic isn’t universal or necessarily right, and there are a lot of personal concepts and reactions woven in here. I promise we won’t spend too long in the hurt, but for this particular story I definitely need to set up where Victor is right now. Yuuri will swoop in soon, I pinky promise! The world is dark enough without me dragging Victor’s pain out for too long. This is a story of overcoming, not drowning in trauma. (Though if you process feels with angst, you gotta do you!)
> 
> Also, because we’re in rough territory with this fic, I just want to mention that there will definitely be no MAWs and I try to do my best to spot to warn about triggers in the beginning notes of chapters! As someone who’s been getting triggered regularly for months now, no one needs any of that shit ruining their day/week/month. But I am human, so if I miss something, I’m so sorry.
> 
> WOW THAT’S A LONG NOTE, I’m sorry this fic is giving me Emotions™. Anyway, thank you all so much for giving this a shot! And bless Rae, Dachi, and [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said) for being the dream team keeping me going/helping me catch stuff along the way!!! <3
> 
> (Also, a side-note: I meant to post this chapter weeks ago but [Things have been happening](https://twitter.com/Kazul9/status/1298058035911446535), so I might be a little belated in responding to comments--but they still mean to world to me, so extra special shout-out to those who leave them! <3)


	2. Chapter 2

“Your grandfather would like to speak to you.”

Victor’s fingers twitch in agitation as he stares out the window, clenching his jaw and not turning away from the great, twirling buildings of brilliant light outside. He heard the door open, of course he did. But he wishes they would _knock_. He knows that the servants and guards are just following his grandfather’s orders, that they would happily respect his space if they weren’t explicitly told not to under penalty of death. But it still makes Victor feel unsettled to know that he has no space and nothing that’s _his_.

And then the words sink in, and he can’t believe that he was worried about something so small.

His grandfather never wants to see him after he’s come back from the task he was sent on.

Not unless he has a punishment to deal out.

Victor clears his throat, trying to stop it from tightening before the servant reports back less-than-perfect behavior from him. “He needs me right now?”

“Yes sir.”

Victor closes his eyes, taking a few breaths and pretending that his heart isn’t beating against his ribs like a hummingbird trapped in the confines of a boney cage. His grandfather can’t take anything from him this time because he’s destroyed his attachments to everything important to him. Victor’s grandfather can’t hurt him in any way that Victor hasn’t already been hurt. He won’t even kill Victor, because he’s a valuable tool. He’s the only blood lineage to his disgusting throne. He just has to survive this.

He _can_ survive this.

He has to because… because why again? What’s waiting for him after this? What does he have to survive this for?

Victor lets out a long breath, turning around and plastering a smile to his face. “Very well. Take me to him, if you wouldn’t mind.” A younger Victor, one with some semblance of life in him, might have taken the time to change, to push his grandfather to his limits before waltzing into the room.

But Victor’s lost too much. Just the thought of angering that man on purpose has his skin crawling, his breathing picking up—

No, he’s not doing that. He’s playing by the rules. He _has_ been playing by the rules for a long time, no matter how it makes his stomach clench and churn.

Last night Victor hadn’t caught the perpetrators. Victor made up a lie about getting hit in the gut, and refused medical examination afterward. As far as his grandfather knows, Victor did his best.

But Victor knows that won’t ever matter.

The only thing that ever matters in Victor’s life are the results.

And now he’s going to— Victor’s going to—

_No_.

Victor focuses on the shoes of the servant leading him to the throne room, timing his breaths with the precise, ringing footsteps in the otherwise mind-numbing silence.

He has nothing that his grandfather can take from him anymore. He’s been _so careful_ to not have any attachments or feelings toward anything in a long time. There’s nothing of Victor left inside of him. He’s a shell, and there’s nothing more to take.

There’s nothing his grandfather can do to him.

There is nothing his grandfather can do to him.

There is _nothing_ that his grandfather can—

The doors to the throne room squeak open in a way that hasn’t changed in years, and it causes bile to rise up his throat. But outwardly, nothing changes. Victor’s still smiling pleasantly, striding into the room in measured steps that aren’t too rushed but aren’t so relaxed as to make his grandfather wait. Not that he seems impatient sitting above Victor at the top of his steps where he _loves_ to lord over all of the other royalty from of a throne so bright that could probably blind you from looking at it for too long.

After all, electricity is a luxury within the hive. You get paid to give it, and it costs even more to get ahold of it. If you’re caught powering your own home or trading your own energy for supplies, you will be executed without remorse. To have enough wealth and power to illuminate the very _walls_ of your house is obscene.

It’s _sick_.

But that only scratches the surface of his grandfather.

“What a lovely day to see you, grandfather,” Victor manages to drag out the words lightly, as if they aren’t the greatest lie that he’s ever told, bowing dramatically and with just a bit of flair that he’s managed to cling to all of these years. “Is there a reason you wanted to see me?”

“You know the reason,” Victor’s grandfather grinds out, his voice like the scraping of rocks slowly wearing down to sand.

Victor glances up, taking the first glance he dares to at his grandfather’s face.

And Victor’s stomach twists and _squeezes_.

His gold and white hair gleams, perfectly coiffed away from his face and his artfully trimmed scruff. His hands rest calmly on the arms of his throne, his clothes finer and more intricate than what even Victor wears. And his face is _calm_.

Victor can barely remember the last time this man was calm.

At least when he’s furious to the point that he’s a mess—screaming and red-faced as Victor tries to endure it without an ounce of emotion that might fuel it—he’s predictable. He tries to hit Victor where it hurts, the usual weak points that Victor has had for as long as he can remember. But what his grandfather doesn’t know is that they have toughened up from years and years of being scared and scarred. Isolation doesn’t hold the same terror that it used to; less food at meals isn’t a death sentence.

When he’s calm, that means he’s thinking, and if he’s thinking, that means he has a plan.

But he _can’t_ have a plan. Victor’s _safe_. There is _nothing_ that his grandfather can do to hurt him anymore.

_Nothing_.

Victor’s mind races, and it takes everything in him to keep his breathing calm. He can’t think of anything that his grandfather would know. There’s nothing that he _should_ know.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Victor slowly straightens himself, though he keeps his head a little bowed to try and show some respect. “Last night my task wasn’t a successful one, but I had _almost_ caught one of the Agape members—”

“Before you let them go.” His grandfather’s eyes grow dark, narrowing in on Victor.

It’s a strain to keep Victor’s smile on his face, but he fights tooth and nail for it. “No, that’s not what happened. His companion took me out—surely you’ve read the reports? If they haven’t been given to you, I’ll happily get them myself.”

“I’ve read your lies.” Victor’s grandfather stands, and on the same level as Victor he’s an inch or two shorter, but atop the stairs he is a _giant_ and Victor feels exactly like a child again. “You should make sure that people aren’t watching before you defend the life of a _traitor_.”

“What?” Victor’s smile doesn’t fail, it never does. But his eyes scream as his mind spirals, crashing and tumbling on its way down. No, all of the guards were back in the building. They were too slow.

Unless his grandfather managed to have someone follow him.

Victor swallows back the bile that threatens to escape as the world spins. He hadn’t even thought of that. He should have thought of that. He’s never safe; he knows that his grandfather has eyes everywhere. He should have just killed that man.

And yet… A part of Victor can’t regret it. Not when in that situation Victor had nothing to lose and that rebel had everything to lose. Victor can’t even imagine what a life like that would be like, how many connections that man would have, how many things he had done, and has left to do.

And what is Victor? What will he do with the rest of his skeletal life, no sinew left to connect the bones of him together?

Maybe there is a hint of the rebellion and fight Victor had in himself as a teenager, because Victor can’t regret this. He refuses.

Victor tilts his head a little, letting a crease in his brow form as he pretends at confusion. “Grandfather, I defended no one’s life. I failed the task you gave me, yes, but I didn’t break your orders.”

And Victor hadn’t broken those orders; he was ordered to capture or kill. He wasn’t told what _not_ to do. He wasn’t told that letting them go wasn’t an option. He didn’t even defend the rebel, he simply didn’t kill or capture him.

It isn’t as if Victor thinks that he’ll get away with it, but maybe he can sow some distrust between his grandfather and his spies, he might as well go for it.

But all his grandfather does for a long moment is raise an eyebrow and examine Victor, before he finally leans closer, voice getting lower. “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

“I haven’t.” And that’s the truth—not that his grandfather would be able to tell. After all, Victor learned how to hide his tells from his grandfather himself. Deceit is expected and encouraged, as long as it’s used for Victor’s grandfather’s benefit.

For a moment their eyes stay locked, a battle of wills as Victor stands with a casual confidence, and his grandfather glowers back. It’s a moment that Victor’s lived through dozens of times, something that he’ll face again a dozen more, but this is the first time in as long as he can remember that he doesn’t feel hopeless and hollow and numb. Instead, he remembers the life in that man’s face as he turned and ran away with enough food to keep people alive for a little while longer. He remembers the soft brown of the eyes behind The Fox’s mask, something gentle in them that Victor never would have expected. He would have thought they would be the cold steel of his grandfather’s, or the empty blue of his own. Either a pawn or a king.

But The Fox and the man with him were something else entirely.

He’s not sure what to call the small coal of warmth in his chest, because he knows it’s not hope; he learned the dangers of daring to have hope a while ago. He wouldn’t let himself dare to have that dream again.

But whatever it is, he likes it. He wants to protect it. It’s a good change.

Except on his grandfather’s part there’s a change too. A smile cracks across his face, looking so wrong and out of character that one of Victor’s fingers twitch. And then his grandfather chuckles in a broken sort of way, like his vocal cords aren’t used to it. It grows until the sound is booming around the hall, vibrating in Victor’s bones, chilling him to the core.

A laugh should be humorous; it should be light and wonderful. It’s been a long time since Victor had any reason to give a real, true laugh, but he remembers studying them to learn to imitate them, so he could play the part of what a person may want him to be.

There is nothing kind or funny about this laugh. Victor’s never heard this man laugh in his life, and it makes sense that it sings of cruelty and of malice.

And of course it’s aimed toward Victor. Every vicious thing in this man always is.

Victor waits it out patiently, letting his grandfather have the show of rubbing tears from his eyes. He doesn’t dare interrupt, despite how his feet itch to _run_.

“You know,” his grandfather starts, taking a moment to clear his throat. “I was going to give you a choice, to send him off to the farms or to execute him, whichever fate you think is kinder. But I had assumed that you were a well-trained pup at this point. I assumed there was a mistake and would have offered you a form of mercy in exchange for your honesty. But no. A spark of that sly bastard child you’ve always been is still in there, isn’t it? You don’t respect me, so I have no choice but to not respect you. He will die a slow death by my own hand. It’s been a while since I’ve personally done the work myself.”

“Who.” The word rings hollow out of Victor’s mouth, not even daring to be a question. He knows he’s giving his grandfather too much emotion, too much ammunition to use against him. But he can’t have— It’s not _possible_.

A smile curves across his grandfather’s lips, and Victor knows. “I thought I’d been thorough in eliminating anything and anyone that might tempt you into another one of your damned independent streaks, but when this happened I realized there was one that we missed because you covered him up so well. You used to be so close to him when you were children, and now he’s the captain of your guard. You’re very clever, but you couldn’t completely hide him away. Not Christophe Giacometti.”

“Oh, is that the name of my guard’s captain? You know I’m terrible about things like that.” Victor lies through his teeth so well that even he’s fooled for a moment, he almost believes he doesn’t care—and then he remembers what’s at stake.

He remembers growing up with Chris. Their parents were close, but Victor doesn’t remember that. He remembers picking flowers with Chris and putting them in each other’s hair while they came up with stories and worlds that were bigger and brighter and lovelier than the one they were born into. Victor clung to those memories after they were ripped apart at the death of Victor’s parents. And then Chris came back again, but this time as a warrior, as a stranger—and at that point, Victor knew enough to keep it that way.

But they still value each other. When Victor spends the night in the dungeons, Chris will relieve the guard on duty and slip him food without a word. Victor won’t lie to him no matter what, as tempting as it is to hide things sometimes. Chris will knock on his door, knowing that his position and achievements protect him from being reported to Victor’s grandfather. Victor manages to relieve Chris of the worst of the work that he’s sent on—like last night; Victor knows it would have bothered Chris to be a part of something like that, and he isn’t as good at hiding his emotions as Victor.

And that attempt at kindness was the final nail in the coffin. Chris is the only person that Victor trusts to know the guards, to choose ones that aren’t just Victor’s grandfather’s lackeys. But Victor decided against involving Chris.

Victor’s jaw twitches just the slightest at that sour twist of regret.

Any possible hesitation or doubt at what he knows to be the truth vanishes from Victor’s grandfather’s eyes, and that’s all it takes. Just remembering how much Chris means to Victor will be what kills him.

The chances of outsmarting his grandfather, of making him _believe_ Victor, were slim, but now there’s no chance. By caring about another human being, he’s sending them to an early grave. It’s his life. He should be used to it.

He’s not.

“Oh, you almost had me for a second there.” His grandfather shakes his head. “A snake, just like your mother was. Well, I imagine that his execution will be in a couple days’ time. You aren’t invited, but you can pay your respects afterward if you can bear it.”

Bile crawls up Victor’s throat. He’s seen his grandfather’s work, he was forced to watch it once and it was the first—and last—time that he vomited in front of his grandfather. He’s threatened to personally attend to Victor’s friends in the past, but he hasn’t wasted his time dealing with Victor’s punishments personally before.

Until now, apparently. And that— Chris being—

Victor can’t stand for this. He won’t.

The smile fades off of Victor’s face. “No.”

The humor drops from Victor’s grandfather’s face, like it wasn’t even there in the first place. “What did you just say?”

“You have taken far too much from me while I just sat there and let you. But I am no longer a child.” Victor reaches and places a hand on his shashka—normally on him for appearances only while he’s at home. Just like keeping his long hair braided in the current style, keeping the gleam polished to draw innocent moths to the flame. But Victor is lethal beneath his appearances, and he isn’t afraid to use it. “I will not let you sit there and demand I hand over the last sliver of a connection I have to this life.”

His grandfather rises from his throne in a sweeping, precise movement, looking down his nose at Victor as his smile grows wider and more wicked. “Oh? What are you planning to do, little Vitya?”

Victor’s hands clench, the sword in his grip rattling against the scabbard. How _dare_ he use his name like that. He hasn’t dared to speak Victor’s name like that since his parents’ funeral; even _he_ had the respect to not assume they had any sort of relationship. Hell, Victor doesn’t know if he’s ever heard his grandfather say his name to his face before, only in conversation with others where all he spews are lies anyway.

“I’ll kill you,” Victor growls with a clenched jaw, drawing his sword in a movement so familiar that it’s second-nature.

His grandfather laughs, and Victor sees red as the man strides toward him. “Really? Then what, boy? What will you do? Immediately fall to the hands of _our_ enemies that I’ve kept you safe from all these years? Run out into the streets and live like a rat until the rats themselves eat you? Or will you try and aim for my throne? Because you are not ready. You can’t even follow simple instructions. You’re so stupid that you _still_ don’t understand the importance of The Hive and continue to follow your own, selfish whims whenever it entertains you. Commoners that would have gotten that food will starve now because of you. Our soldiers will die because you let those two escape to murder another day.”

“ _Don’t come any closer_!” Panic weaves its way into the current of fury as _that man_ descends on Victor, and Victor whips out his sword, pointing it at his grandfather’s gut.

“Or what?” His grandfather doesn’t stop, not until his stomach is pressed against the blade, tearing into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll kill me? You are nothing without me. You were nothing before me, and you’ll be nothing after. If you kill me, your life ends too. Turmoil will spread across The Hive. Hundreds of people will lose their lives as the royals fight amongst themselves and forget those in the dark district. And if you hate me? Wait until you have a worse monster in charge of those helpless little peasants.”

“Stop.” Victor barely manages to choke out the word. He can barely manage to see, to _breathe_. The room sways and churns while his blade pushes into his grandfather’s stomach stands out in a stark contrast, clear among all the chaos.

Victor’s so close. He can have it. He can choose Christophe over his grandfather. His grandfather who deserves to _die_.

Why the fuck can’t he _move his goddamn hands_?

“No. _You_ stop your insolence, Victor. Your friend is as good as dead. He’s out of your reach, and he will suffer for being associated with a sniveling traitor like yourself. Now, are you going to finish what you started?”

“Stop.” Victor’s voice breaks. His eyes burn, and his throat chokes up with unshed tears.

“ _Coward!_ ”

“ _Stop_!” Victor falls to his knees, the sword clattering down in front of him.

He is a coward.

He is a traitor.

Christophe deserves better. Everyone that he’s ever dared to care for deserved someone less broken and useless and lost.

It would have been so easy. Victor’s killed before. He doesn’t enjoy it, but he should enjoy this. He should be tearing his grandfather to _shreds_ , his own fate be damned.

But he can’t.

Coward. He’s a _coward_. Coward coward cowardcowardcoward _cowardcoward_ ** _coward_** —

“I told you.” His grandfather turns away while Victor stares at his sword with empty eyes, breathing too fast yet not enough all at once. “You are _nothing_ without me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that Yuuri is coming back SO SOON.
> 
> (If anyone doesn’t get why Victor didn’t just go for the kill, this poor boy has been gaslit and manipulated for twenty years. Overcoming and facing that mountain of bullshit isn’t going to be overcome very easily. )
> 
> I'm hella exhausted because of lots of reasons, so this note will stay short and sweet! But thank you to _everyone_ who's checking this fic out and giving me the encouragement to keep writing during such a rough time, and shout-out to my alpha/beta dream team, Rae, Dachi, and Tess!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning:**   
>  _Character Injury!_

Victor had lied before. He’d been lying to himself for a long time.

He’d thought there were no scraps of himself left, every part of Victor that made up _Victor_ carefully scraped out or hidden behind so many layers that he didn’t even know the truth of his own lies anymore.

But when he’d thought that, he’d never felt this empty. He’d never felt this _alone_.

His grandfather sent him away on another mission immediately—this time outside of the city, as if he expected Victor to try to break Chris free.

In truth, he would have.

Even if it ended with Victor speared on some guard’s sword, if he’d figured out where Christophe was being held, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. He wouldn’t have _wanted_ to stop himself.

But again and again his attempts to look everywhere he could think of, to find where his grandfather had decided to hide away the last person that Victor had to care about, ended in failure. He tried, by _god_ he tried, but he couldn't find even a trace. Chris's rooms were empty. No one had seen him get apprehended. Victor's grandfather was thorough.

And two days later, the day that his grandfather had promised that he would personally take the life of someone who means everything to Victor, he’s shoved into a crowded military vehicle, trying and failing to eat as his stomach churns and clenches.

Victor doesn't cry. He wants to cry, but he doesn't. He can't. He's so numb that he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to shed a tear again. Honestly, he's not sure if he deserves to.

It is his fault, after all. He chose the life of some unknown man over Chris. _Chris,_ who has regularly risked his own job, if not his life, just to show Victor that he cared, and that he remembered.

Victor doesn't want to regret saving that man, but he can't help but feel like he has to after these consequences. Because he can't say he would make that choice again.

And now…

Now he's following the motions. He talks and he jokes and he smiles while inside he aches. Inside, he screams and he hurts and he cries out for someone to see this suffering, to help him, to make it go away.

But he doesn't dare express even a sliver of what he feels. After all, his grandfather has eyes everywhere, and he had made it abundantly clear what this mission means to him.

If Victor fails this, he'll meet the same fate as Chris.

Victor’s chosen the enemy over his own blood, according to his grandfather. And now he needs to prove his loyalty, or prove that he’s a traitor.

A rebellion, most likely the Agape, has targeted an outpost against the sea to capture it, as that’s where a lot of food shipments come in from the farms. There isn't a shipment scheduled for a while yet, but when it does come, it’s been planned to pass through one of The Hive’s smaller outposts; a remote one that they use less because it's more out of the way. But, apparently, it's better suited to dealing with whatever's on the freight ship. They had mentioned the contents of the ship at the briefing, but Victor didn't care enough to remember. He didn't want to remember.

It's just not important. None of it is. More than once, Victor considers getting out of the vehicle and just walking. He wouldn't survive very long in the wastes without shelter. Between the acid rain that would slowly eat away at his skin after a few showers, the searing heat of the day, and the frigid chill of the night, very little can survive out there, even if some plant and animal life managed to miraculously adapt. But his survival is moot, isn’t it? Because his grandfather is right.

Without his grandfather, Victor won’t last long. Without his grandfather, Victor doesn’t have a life, or a goal, or a personality. He’s a puppet, and he’ll be nothing if his strings are cut.

But maybe it’s better if his strings are cut.

If Victor doesn’t keep doing his grandfather’s bidding, no one will ever be hurt by him and his existence again.

But if he stops, if he runs, what was the point? Why did he even try to live all of these years? Should he have given up decades ago? It would have saved so many lives. Maybe a rebellion would have been successful without Victor’s sword and his lightning interrupting their plans. He is one of the most fiercely trained warriors out there—Victor had asked the swordmaster, General Feltsman, to teach him everything he knew and more, and he did. Yakov seems like a good man, in a way. He was brutal in his training, he worked Victor to the bone, but he had a heart beneath the gruffness. He only pushed Victor as hard as he could take. He yelled and swore worse than a sailor, but he listened too. Even when Victor was pushing him, still trying to rebel in some ways, his words were the harshest punishment he would deal out. And he never went right for Victor’s heart like his grandfather did.

Victor misses Yakov. He was promoted to some-odd position and Victor hasn’t seen much of him since. But that training was one of the few highlights of his life. It was the first thing he was proud of, to be able to master the dance of fighting, to defend himself from any foe.

Except for the worst one, because he’s also all that Victor has.

He lets out a sigh as he and his crew pile out of their vehicle and into the rocky, rubble-strewn shore beside the sea, the ruins of ancient buildings slowly crumbling away and overtaken by the rough, ruthless scrub that tears into anything it can to survive.

Victor’s spent a long time trying to do just that, hold on to anything he can to fight for, anything he can fight with. But now his roots are all dislodged, and maybe it’s not worth grounding himself again.

He became a master at wielding both his blade and his lightning in an attempt to find freedom. But instead he lost it; his skill was used to fulfill the selfish wishes of others. Maybe it really is better if Victor’s not around. Maybe…

“Mr. Nikiforov?” A voice sounds next to him, a soldier.

Victor blinks and straightens, a smile spreading across his face. “Sorry, I had just been thinking about how hard it would be to defend this place with all the rubble and rocks.”

The man nods, looking relieved. Good. “We have an extensive camera system, sir. Let me show you.”

“Thank you.” Victor nods, giving the man permission to lead—but he hesitates for a fraction of a second to follow.

More likely than not this entire interaction will be reported back to Victor’s grandfather, but why does it _matter_? Why does Victor keep acting the part of the perfect prince even though he doesn’t want to?

Is he even capable of breaking this act? Is it an act anymore? What if Victor can think about breaking his chains to this grandfather all he wants, but it’s impossible to take any steps toward shattering them?

Like right now; he starts following the man before he gets too far behind or anything is suspected. Even though it doesn’t matter with nothing left to lose. None of it _matters_.

His hands clench into fists and they stay that way all throughout his tour of the facilities. The entire place has been emptied of workers, knowing this raid was underway. It must be a minor group of rebels outside of The Hive, because there are only about a half-dozen or so soldiers with Victor—though they never have to send many with Victor. Even for Agape, they don’t.

Honestly, Victor would’ve wondered if his grandfather was trying to off him long before now if he hadn’t been such a valuable tool to him.

Victor’s not sure if he hopes it will be Agape or not. To see those white animal masks and those brilliant tattoos, to have that freedom and regret shoved in his face.

When he was younger, he would daydream about having a marking like that, or maybe something wildly different, like a tiger, or a wolf. But eventually he got old enough to get the marking of his clan—a physical sign of loyalty that Victor’s grandfather set in place after the execution of his son, Victor’s father. It’s a roc, a giant bird of prey with claws outstretched toward victory, as his grandfather would say.

It’s just plain black ink, an outline of the great bird that means nothing to Victor. He was given the freedom to put it anywhere on his body. His grandfather must have assumed that he would put it proudly on his chest, or broadly on display across the width of his shoulder blades.

Victor chose to have it done on his back just above his waist, taking advantage of the freedom. It’s not the worst placement he thought of—his asscheek was something he absolutely considered—but something he knew his grandfather wouldn’t want.

That was the first time one of his friends died. It was just a woman that he enjoyed chatting with while at parties. His grandfather never liked her since her lineage was a significantly lower ranking, but it was nice to have someone to just _talk_ to, though he couldn’t entirely be himself around the viper pit of nobles trying to climb the social ladder.

But then— God, there was so much _blood_ —

Victor shakes his head. It’s over. It’s done. He has nothing else that could be taken from him. Anyone smart enough has long-since abandoned him, and anyone dumb enough to stay by his side is dead. The sun is setting, and the rebels will probably make their move soon.

Chris is probably gone.

Victor doesn’t believe in a god or any sort of higher power, not after the kind of life he’s led, but he still sends out a quick thought for his most loyal friend. He just hopes that he’s found peace and contentment. Victor prays that his grandfather was telling one of his many lies and that Chris’s end was quick and painless.

Maybe in the next life, or the afterlife, Chris will find the fulfillment and happiness that he more than deserves.

It turns out that the small tower of the outpost is well-equipped with cameras and defensive equipment. It’s the target of quite a few constant attacks, after all—getting out of The Hive isn’t impossible, but living without food or safe water or shelter _is_. If Victor didn’t know better, he’d say that the regular guards that protect this outpost should be more than able to defend it.

But Victor does know better.

If they’ve been able to catch wind of an attack before it happens, it’s a planned, major event. Meaning that they have weapons, and they’re planning on using them. And if they’re as well-trained as Victor? They need someone of Victor’s caliber to take them down.

Not that there are many fighters out there that can match him, much less _beat_ him.

Only one comes to mind. The memory of that white mask and flare of a fiery tattoo lurks in his mind like a premonition as he and his team watch the monitors, waiting.

And when Victor catches a flash of white on the screen, he’s not surprised.

He _is_ , however, caught off guard when that face turns and sprints away from them, tucking into a crevice in the rocks.

“Get out of the building!” Victor screams, already on his feet and running toward the door to the stairs, long hair flying behind him—of course the control room is on the _top floor_. But Victor somehow, miraculously makes it to the bottom of the stairs without anything happening. He makes it to the cover of rocks, as far as he can, ducking behind one.

There’s a snapping and hissing in the air, the hair on Victor’s arms raising in the split second before there’s a large _boom_ behind him, rattling through his bones and his head as debris flies past him.

How the hell did one of these rebellions get ahold of _explosives_? Finding or making proper weapons is hard enough, but this…

This isn’t a tiny rebellion.

And more likely than not, Victor’s now fighting alone.

For the first time in a long time, something uneasy settles in Victor’s gut that has nothing to do with the morals of this mission or his hatred of his grandfather. Normally, his confidence in coming back from a mission without more than a few scratches isn’t a question. He’s quick on his feet, he’s a better warrior than anyone—well, almost anyone—out there.

But does he _want_ to go back?

 _Should_ he go back?

He’s the best of the best. He’s a tool in his grandfather’s hands to do whatever he wishes. And he’s failed.

Victor stands up on shaking legs, his ears ringing a bit from the explosion as he looks at the outpost tower.

Or more accurately, at the wreckage of it.

Victor was supposed to protect this place, and if he goes back to The Hive, to his _home_ , he’ll die. He’ll suffer the same fate as Chris, if not worse. He knows that his grandfather would delight in finally having a pest like him out of his nest.

Maybe he should have just stayed in the explosion. A few fires are blooming now, growing. Any movement is the rubble settling; there isn’t a sign of any life in the dim light.

At least the soldiers had a quick death.

But considering the fact that there’s a giant shard of metal in the vehicle Victor rode here in, it looks like Victor will be dying nice and slow. And yet… there’s a bit of a relief in that.

If he dies of dehydration or hypothermia from the frigid nights, Victor won’t ever have to see his grandfather’s face ever again.

He snorts softly as a wall collapses. _If_. Unless his grandfather sends someone out to find him—which is highly unlikely—he’s _not_ going to make it.

And he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

A muffled voice jars him from his thoughts. At first he’s sure that he’s hallucinating it; maybe he suffered a head injury at some point. But then it comes again, above the ringing, and Victor turns his back to the rubble.

The rebel stands there, dark clothes blending into the rocks. But the white of their mask stands out and almost _glows_ in the light of the fire behind Victor. And for some reason, Victor had assumed that this would be some random member that he hasn’t met yet, or wouldn’t have remembered.

But no.

It makes sense considering how close this outpost is to the city that it would be The Fox.

 _I don’t want to fight them_.

The thought hits Victor with such a stunning clarity and gut-dropping desperation that he shuffles a step back, his hand not even reaching for his shashka.

He’s not sure where the idea comes from. Maybe he’s just tired of following his grandfather’s orders, and right now he’s so close to death that there are no consequences. Maybe he doesn’t want Chris’s death to be in vain, to let the lives that he sacrificed his friend for to keep on living. Maybe the part of him that both envies and longs for the freedom of the life that people like this lead can’t bear to take that away from anyone else.

Regardless, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. He barely dares to breathe in the ashen, dusty air.

But as the ringing finally fades from Victor’s ears, The Fox reaches for their swords.

And on instinct, Victor reaches for his own and seals his fate. He closes his eyes for a moment, briefly mourning the death of the beginning of a better plan, before he draws his shashka, and The Fox echoes the movements with their katanas.

Victor waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

The Fox is never very patient.

The Agape rebel charges forward, footsteps silent. They swing their blades, Victor counters, and the dance begins.

Victor’s never truly danced before, his grandfather thinking of such frivolities below their position, but when he fights with The Fox, it feels like something that deserves music. The Fox steps lightly, their movements flowing into each other like it was choreographed for show and not the rough reality of battle. The striking of their blades forms a beat, the shuffling of their footsteps, the scraping of metal, and quiet breaths forming the instruments. The snapping and crackling and crumbling of the fire as it grows and the building as it falls into nothing adds to the cacophony of sound until the final element weaves in:

Rain.

Only a light drizzle, but enough for Victor to notice.

Victor’s heart does a small flip in his chest. He’d forgotten that a storm would be moving through the area through the next few days. He might be able to find shelter under a rocky outcropping, but then what? He’ll be thirsty, but he won’t be able to drink the water at the shore, or the pools from the rain. He might not be able to properly create electricity with the wetness, which will mean he’ll probably freeze to death during the night. And he’ll be hungry, too. He barely ate lunch after all.

All slow, painful deaths.

Victor’s movements become more desperate, not as calculated and controlled as usual. It sets The Fox off-balance, going on the defensive as energy builds in their bodies, preparing for a masterstroke to take each other down.

But does Victor even want that? The Fox probably has food and supplies. Maybe they have friends, a family. A _life_.

Victor has none of that.

And yet his sword keeps swinging, and he keeps blocking, even as chaotic lightning builds and tickles beneath his skin.

No, Victor can’t kill The Fox. Not because he’s physically incapable—in fact, The Fox seems more tired than usual, which would be the only reason that he hasn’t taken down Victor in his chaotic state yet.

Now would be the only time Victor’s ever been able to say that he could take down The Fox. But he can’t.

Because he _won’t_.

Which makes his choice painfully clear.

When The Fox swings again, their blade sparking and humming with electric energy, their whole weight in the movement, Victor doesn’t move fast enough to block it. He’s close enough to see the warm brown of The Fox’s eyes, illuminated by the brilliance of their own sword as their swing isn’t stopped, as Victor takes a wrong step and ends the dance.

And the blade of The Fox’s katana digs into Victor’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am highkey distracted because I have to go take care of [sudden unexpected puppy](https://twitter.com/Kazul9/status/1312836413109481483), but here's a chapter before I start running around like a maniac!
> 
> Are you guys ready for some COMFORT??? Because I sure as hell am
> 
> As always, thank you so, so, SO much to everyone who reads this and gives my writing a chance, it means more to me now than ever <3 And shout-out to the lovely Rae, Dachi, and [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said)!!! <3


	4. Chapter 4

Pain is all that Victor feels for a second. It darts and sparks through his body in a way that makes his brain almost stop working as he jerks and spasms, nothing in his control. He feels absolutely nothing around him, no air, no ground. Like nothing but him and the burning, searing pain exists.

Until the blade falls from his side and Victor’s on his hands and knees on the ground, panting and shaking and trembling as the rain continues to pour.

Ah. So that’s what it feels like to be hit by lightning.

He’s certainly struck others with the glowing light from his fingertips, but he’s never felt more than a spark from anyone else. He’s better at catching and redirecting energy—something that not too many others have mastered yet. Not that it matters _now_.

Right now, Victor aches down to his bones. The wound on his side pulses with pain. It’s deep. Too deep. It needs to be treated.

But Victor has no first aid on him.

Why isn’t he just _dead_? He’s seen The Fox do impressive things with that sword; he absolutely has the strength to cut Victor right in two if he wanted to.

Really, Victor should be lifting his head and begging for a merciful death, a painless one. He understands if The Fox wants revenge; Victor clearly deserves it after all that he’s done. Trying to get away with a few good deeds doesn’t negate the fact that he chose to keep living, to keep following his uncle’s orders.

He should just lift his head and beg to die now, to be put out of his misery so that he can just get this over with.

But he doesn’t want to.

He _can’t_.

Victor doesn’t want to die.

Desperation floods his gut, washing through his prickling limbs, gnawing at the gash on his side. He hasn’t even lived yet. He’s never been _able_ to have a life. And maybe he doesn’t deserve one, but he wants one. He’s _selfish_.

But what reason would The Fox want him to live for? Victor is the grandson of the cruelest, most disgusting person that he’s ever known to exist. Why would he be different? How many friends of this man has Victor killed? How many times has he stolen freedom from members of Agape?

There’s no reason The Fox would let him live.

Unless…

Victor takes in breath after shaking breath, staring at the ground. Why hasn’t The Fox killed him yet?

Blinking away the painful tears that threaten to spill over, Victor tilts his head up before the fear overtakes him like it had with his grandfather.

The Fox simply stands in front of him. Victor’s vision sways a little as he tries to come back to himself, the world a swirl of grey and black with that white mask sitting dead center of it. The eyeholes look black as everything slowly settles, but Victor knows what lurks beneath. Those warm brown eyes, burning with life, with… with _something_ that Victor has never known or seen before.

And he wants it. He _craves_ it with an intensity that burns hotter and more all-consuming than the burn of lightning as it struck through him. He wants whatever it is that’s been held from him his entire life. He wants to defy every rule that his grandfather has ever set. He wants to be able to feel and not have to pretend his emotion doesn’t exist. He wants to be himself. He wants to smile, he wants to laugh, he wants _everything_.

Victor’s twenty-seven years old, and he’s barely even lived.

He’s _not_ prepared to die.

But what can he do about it? The rebel in front of him still has their swords out, glinting in the fire that rages behind Victor. Even if they decide to walk away, spare Victor like Victor had this person’s friend, that’s as good as death and they have to know that.

And after the life Victor’s lived under his grandfather’s thumb, one act of kindness doesn’t negate everything Victor’s turned a blind eye to, everything that he’s had a hand in. The Fox has every right to take his life.

If they were like Victor’s grandfather, they already would have.

But they haven’t.

In fact, they could have easily cut clean through Victor. He’s seen the impressive strength behind the lithe form in front of him. Victor doesn’t know the reasoning behind The Fox’s actions, but it’s obvious that they haven’t made up their mind completely about what they want to do. Which is absolutely insane—Victor is far from innocent and has long been a roadblock against Agape’s mission.

It would be selfish to ask this man for anything when Victor knows that their very existences clash, that they’re destined to be on opposite sides of the same coin until one destroys the other, and Victor doesn’t think he could be the one to destroy The Fox. Not anymore.

And Victor’s selfish. That craving to live, to reach out and grab at everything he’s never been able to have before hurts more than his injuries. And above all else, he is, unfortunately, his grandfather’s grandson and knows how to only think about himself. He knows how to play this game, even if he _hates_ it.

“I…” Victor clears his throat, the light vibrations making Victor wince as his wounds remind him that he needs treatment, _now_. “Please. Help me.”

The Fox takes a short step back, raising his blades a bit.

Victor whimpers a little, wishing he could think _clearer_ , work this situation to his advantage. “I have no help coming for me. And I— I have information. I’ll give it to you if you help me out. You can do anything you want with me, I just— Help me live. _Please_.”

The Fox stays frozen for a moment, and then the katanas lower a bit, a clear, _go on_.

“I—I have information on where the transportation is really coming through.” Victor squeezes his eyes shut, gripping his side as if that would somehow help. At least the lightning was hot enough to cauterize the wound shut, sohe’s not losing too much blood, but _god_ it stings and aches and burns. It’s beginning to break through any thoughts, crowding them out with the overwhelming sensation of his screaming nerves.

In a swift movement, The Fox wipes off his blades and slides them into their sheaths before striding toward Victor and kneeling in front of him and reaching out.

Victor whimpers again, louder, as he pulls away and then gasps as his wound protests any and all movement.

But he doesn’t escape the touch for long. Fingers slide under his chin, delicate and gentle as they guide his face to looking up, meeting The Fox’s eyes.

Victor shudders _hard_. It’s only the pads of The Fox’s fingers pressed to Victor’s skin, but it’s so— it’s so _gentle_. Victor is the enemy. The Fox should be throwing him around, using Victor’s wound to their advantage. But this touch is simple guidance. Victor could pull away if he really wanted to.

But he doesn’t want to. In fact, he leans into a little but as exhaustion slowly begins to seep into his bones, as he seeks that warmth and a touch more gentle than maybe he’s ever felt. He’s heard that his parents were kind and loving, but what does that matter to Victor when he can barely remember a thing about them? And he knows not to mistake this touch for kindness or care, but it’s the most delicately that Victor has been touched in ages and…

And he likes it a lot.

He hurts, his entire body is still screaming in pain, but a part of the storm of emotion stills at the center of him, focusing on the warmth and the care of it. This isn’t a hard, controlling grip like his grandfather’s was, back when he would bother to lay a hand on him. It isn’t as rough as Yakov’s touches correcting his posture. It certainly isn’t the careless restraint of the soldiers dragging Victor down into the dungeons for a few days spent in isolation.

The Fox is an enemy. The Fox holds all of the cards right now. The Fox has tried to take his life time and time again.

And yet this stranger is treating Victor more kindly than anyone he’s ever met.

Victor knows better than to trust someone like this. He knows how to manipulate people; he knows that The Fox might be trying to get on his good side by being kind and careful with Victor. And yet a small whine escapes Victor’s throat, because he _wants_ to trust this person. He wants to trust _any_ person. He doesn’t know if there’s anyone he’s ever been able to have any faith in his entire life, and he wants that. He doesn’t know if that exists outside of stories and fairytales, but for a moment he lets himself have that dreaded, horrible thing:

Hope.

“I know about the other outpost. I knew that was where the shipment was going.” The Fox’s voice is so smooth, so inviting, that for a moment Victor just takes in the sound of them, hearing this voice that he’s only heard give clipped orders in another language and grunts and gasps in the heat of the battle.

And then the words sink in and Victor’s stomach twists _painfully_ and dammit all, he knows better than to have hope. But he can’t give up, not now. Not until he takes his last breath.

“I know numbers. I know who will be there. They’re anticipating groups like you trying to find out where the shipment is really coming in after you fell for the rumor about tonight. They want to take you out. Please, I—” Victor gasps as pain flashes through his system, blinding for a moment. “Please. Whatever I have, you can have it. I just—”

Victor’s just not ready. He doesn’t want to die.

But which of the men that both Victor and The Fox have killed actually wanted to die? Victor’s no different. It will earn him no mercy.

The Fox leans in a bit closer, enough that Victor can see the brown of their eyes, flickering in the light of the growing fire. “What makes you think I don’t have that information?”

“I don’t—“ Victor gasps in a breath, his head spinning between the pain and the touch and the craving to live that he can barely think for a moment. This is an impossible battle. Victor’s the grandson of the enemy. His life is less than worthless. But he can’t give up. Not on the one thing that still remains his own: his life. “I can’t prove it. But the warehouses and their shipments are my main responsibility. It’s the one thing I know. _Please_.”

The Fox doesn’t need to know that it’s his _only_ responsibility, and he’s only ever told about them when his grandfather feels that he’ll need Victor’s brute strength for something or other. But he does know about this shipment. He’s not lying, he’s not twisting the truth for once, and it doesn’t even matter. He might die anyway.

The Fox gently tilts Victor’s face in his grip, examining him for a moment. “You’re turning traitor awfully quick after years of fighting me without a moment’s hesitation. This could easily be a trap, and even I’m not enough of a fool to look past that. What if I don’t trust this supposed information that you have?”

Victor trembles. _Shit_. He’s really doing a horrible job of this. He’s used to dealing with snakes and liars that want his money or his body—or both. But that’s easy; that’s straightforward. It’s a transaction, neither party expects honesty or kindness. This is much harder.

Victor doesn’t know how to trust someone, much less have someone trust him.

“I don’t— I don’t know? I’m sure I have some information you don’t know. I could help you make maps of the entire Nikiforov complex. Even most of the bright district.”

“We already have inside agents that have illustrated almost everything for us,” The Fox says softly and casually, as if they aren’t slowly ripping any chance of life away from Victor’s hands. “What do you have that absolutely no one else can offer me?”

Nothing.

Victor has absolutely nothing.

Everything that Victor has to give this rebel is something that really belongs to someone else. All of the tools at his disposal, all of the information at his fingertips—everything belongs to someone else. Hell, after failing this mission he doesn’t even know if his _home_ is his.

But has it ever really even been _his_ home?

The only thing that Victor can say is his is what’s on him right now. The clothes on his back, and the sword that his father had left for him—the only shred of evidence that Victor even had parents that might have once cared for him.

That and…

“I only have myself.” Victor huffs out the words. “You can have me. Use me for whatever you want. I will fight your battles for you. I will do any labor or menial tasks you need done. I’ll even…” Victor swallows, closing his eyes for a moment. “ _Anything_. I just…”

If Victor gives himself over, though, will he really have a life? Will he be able to _live_? The Fox has kind eyes and a kind touch, but Victor knows that the nicest of nobles can be vipers if you let them in too close. Victor may be worked to the bone; he may be— They might— Victor doesn’t even want to think about what they could choose to do.

But if Victor gives up now, that’s it. It’s over. And Victor’s never been one to believe in any sort of higher power, but if there is an afterlife, the one that Victor will be sent to won’t be a kind one.

And at the very least, he won’t have to see his grandfather ever again.

“I just want to live. Just— Not there. Anywhere but there. _Please_.”

“Hmm.” The Fox reaches up with their other hand and brushes away the strands of Victor’s hair to see him better.

Victor shudders, eyes shutting as his breaths grow more and more ragged. How can this person be so gentle to someone so cruel as Victor?

“I suppose I could ransom you off…” The Fox mutters.

A laugh escapes Victor’s lips. “You could try. You’d be lucky to get a jug of sewage in return for me.”

“Hm. I don’t trust that. You’re the sole heir to the most self-centered man alive. He’d want his blood on his wretched throne, if it’s age that finally kills the bastard.”

Victor blinks his eyes open and, _oh_. That brown is really so lovely. Almost glimmering in the firelight. There might be little flecks of gold in there too. Oh, and the eyelashes surrounding them, so long and so dark…

“It doesn’t matter,” Victor murmurs, never looking away from those eyes. “Even you have to know he won’t pay for damaged goods. He won’t want a dead body, or an injured one. I might be his heir, but I’m most useful as a warrior to him.”

“You talk about yourself like you’re cattle.” Those brown eyes narrow at him.

Victor huffs out a breath. “Aren’t I? I’m a bargaining chip to you. I’m a sword to that _man_. I… I’m just…”

“You aren’t a bargaining chip,” The Fox snaps. “You are Victor Nikiforov, and I will use you how I see fit. Do you understand?”

Victor blinks up at The Fox, trying not to hope, desperately trying not to latch onto anything before he _knows_. “Does that mean… Will you help me? Please?”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you’ll need. Your wound is deep.” The Fox pauses for a second. “When I fight men like you, it’s only with the intent to kill.”

“I know. I _know_.” Victor gulps in breath, his eyes stinging from the smoke of the fire. “It’s not— I’m— I’m so _sorry_.”

“Are you?” The Fox muses. “We’ll work out the details when you’re not going into shock. Can you stand?”

Victor tries to move, to bring up his knee. But then the world is sliding, tilting—

And then there are arms around him, supporting him without jarring his wound.

A noise escapes Victor, needy and almost animalistic in its rawness. He leans into the gentle hold, and he almost wishes it were tighter, surrounding him.

“I’ve got you,” The Fox murmurs in Victor’s ears, and despite the jarring pain and the world fading out of focus, Victor can feel the breath of those words brush past his ear.

And Victor’s lifted up, care taken not to jostle him but pain striking through him all the same, enough that the world starts to go dark.

But for just a fraction of a second, Victor lets himself believe those words, believe that they mean more than a means to an end. That while he’s injured and helpless, he’ll be treated kindly. That for once, someone will care for him not because they’re afraid of him or because they’re obligated to or because they need to use him. Even if he can’t understand why anyone _would_ do that for him, he stares up at the fading mask of The Fox.

And everything goes blissfully quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So lightning strikes and the injuries they cause are FASCINATING, but assume that human-lightning is much less powerful than nature-lightning within this fic (though it wielded correctly, it can kill), so it’s not as bad.
> 
> My health isn't doing so great (I know that's vague, but it's just a _lot_ ), so I'm just gonna yeet this into the void and run off to lie down because I am worn thin as heck. But as always, thank you all so, so much for checking this fic out! And a shout-out to [Rae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedear/pseuds/raedear), [Dachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dachi), and [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said) for being amazing <3


	5. Chapter 5

When Victor wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. He’s never seen these walls—if you even want to call them walls. They’re part stone, but not like the solid, impenetrable walls of the dungeons. But there are wooden beams strewn in there, a couple of bricks, some cloth—or maybe old, weathered wallpaper. It looks like he’s in the middle of a pile of rubble.

Maybe Victor _is_ beneath some rubble. The outpost that he was supposed to be guarding exploded. He didn’t get too far away from it before he was stopped.

And he didn’t leave because he had an injury.

And then The Fox—

Victor sits up, or at least attempts to before he sucks in a breath, biting down on his lip as pain strikes through his body hot and fast and sharp. He gently lays himself back down, trying not to agitate anything further.

It feels like it’s too late for that, though.

Now that he’s aware of it, the pain is all he can think of as it slowly crawls down to a baseline. His breathing stays shallow to try to not pull at the slow-healing flesh. It doesn’t feel like it’s as deep as he’s seen some soldiers live through, but it’s the deepest that Victor’s ever had. He has his fair share of scars, of course; he’s not flawless. But he has nothing like this. This is a scar that will last the rest of his life.

Assuming that he lives through it. Because he’s seen people live through worse, sure. But that was in the center of The Hive, where there was medicine and technology to help them recover. But out here? There’s no medicine. There’s not even clean water. There’s nothing.

Though as Victor’s trembling fingers touch his side, he finds a tight—but not too tight— binding of fabric keeping the wound closed. And he’s warm. Now that he’s paying attention, he can hear the hissing and snapping of a fire.

He’s not alone.

He made a deal.

And in return for his life, Victor traded everything he had. The _only_ thing he has.

He gave away himself—whoever that happens to be.

“There you are, Nikiforov.” Someone strides up next to Victor as he lies prone on the floor, a person with a voice so distinct in Victor’s mind that he could recognize it anywhere. “I thought we might have been about to lose you with how long you’ve been sleeping.”

“I don’t die that easily, or they’d have happily had my head many years ago.” Victor’s voice is rough, unused, and he squints up at the figure, his eyes refusing to adjust right away with the light—the fire, probably—at The Fox’s back. “How long was I out?”

“About a day. The shock took it out of you, it seems. Not to mention your reaction time wasn’t exactly what it normally is while we were fighting. I imagine you were tired.” The Fox sits down next to Victor, crossing his legs and—oh.

He’s not wearing his mask. Or, Victor assumes he’s a _he_. What’s for sure is that he’s stunning. He’s soft in a way that’s unexpected with The Fox’s fierceness and unpredictability, but in a way that also strangely fits. Those beautiful eyes are on full display, but there are a pair of glasses perched on his nose, drawing attention to his long lashes as his eyes hood to look down at Victor. His hair is short and soft where it falls around his face, making him look gentle—though Victor knows the edge that lurks beneath.

Something about him is so beautifully, unexpectedly _human_ in a way that makes Victor want to reach out and touch him. To feel the soft curve of The Fox’s lips; to see if that hair feels as lush and thick between his fingers as it looks.

Victor knows he can’t touch. And he also knows that he _shouldn’t_. Not only would it probably scare his caretaker away while Victor’s useless, and in general it would be rude, but this sort of neediness isn’t like him. He’s not soft like this. He’s been so weak to just this man’s touch that, between his fingers on Victor’s skin and the desperation for more than this life—no, not even life, this _existence_ —Victor managed to give away all of his freedoms, even more than his grandfather had taken from him.

And yet Victor can barely bring himself to care about that as he watches The Fox’s eyebrow raise and the edges of his lips turn down. There’s something about an expression so simple on a face that looks so lovely that captures Victor’s attention unlike anything else. It’s not that Victor’s a stranger to beautiful things; he had his pick of polished, lovely things in the heart of The Hive.

But it’s not just outward beauty that enraptures Victor. It’s the kindness that’s so evident in The Fox’s eyes, the softness in how he touches. It doesn’t feel right and yet it fits perfectly. Victor’s always thought of The Fox as another fighter like himself. But he was very, very wrong.

Victor fights because he’s told to.

The Fox fights because he _wants_ to.

Because The Fox believes his cause is right and will help people who need it. Not just because he enjoys the dance of the fight, but to protect friends and family.

For a single moment, Victor dares to imagine that the fierce kindness in The Fox’s heart might reach him—but he knows better.

The Fox has seen Victor and where his loyalties lie. They’re opposites. The Fox is willing to sacrifice his life for others to live. Victor has been willing to sacrifice others for himself to live—and he uses the word “live” very loosely.

Still, Victor can’t change the past, even if he wants to. For now, he can enjoy the sight in front of him.

The Fox lifts up a hand, waving it in front of Victor’s face. “You still in there, Nikiforov?”

“You’re beautiful.” The words pop out of Victor’s mouth before he can take them back—not that he would. Normally he’d have a bit more tact, but what does it matter? He’s lived his entire life behind so many partial-lies that he barely knows what’s real and what’s not. But this? This is a truth.

Even if it’s a bit worrying how little of a mind-to-mouth filter he seems to have right now.

The Fox’s frown deepens, his eyes darkening—oh, that’s a lovely expression too. “Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere with me, Nikiforov.”

“Okay.” Victor nods in agreement, even if his head doesn’t quite feel right on his shoulders as he moves it. “But I’m not trying to flatter you. I just needed to say it, since you’re so unfair with your eyes, and your hair, and your face…”

A slight flush of pink crawls across The Fox’s cheeks, painting his skin another beautiful shade that Victor lets himself quietly enjoy. Maybe trading his body to this man wasn’t such a bad idea.

Victor frowns. No, that _is_ a bad thing. The Fox might look nice, but the whole “having been mortal enemies for years” bit spoils the rest of their relationship.

After a second, Victor snorts. _Relationship_. Maybe Victor hit his head at some point during their fight and he doesn’t remember it. Maybe the impact of the explosion destroyed a part of his brain.

The Fox leans in, placing a palm onto the side of Victor’s forehead, gentle as always. Victor rolls his head into the touch, a soft noise coming out of his lips.

The Fox pulls away instantly at the sound.

“No fever yet…” The Fox keeps frowning, and Victor can’t help but wish that the lovely face could be happier, more content. “You’d better not be getting one, Nikiforov. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, and if you develop an infection, I have no way to treat it. You’re on your own, then.”

Victor frowns, his mind trying to make sense of words that don’t mean much to him. “Wouldn’t you just kill me? Wouldn’t that be kinder?”

“Do you deserve something kinder?” The Fox’s smile fades as he says the words, face becoming oddly blank. “After everything that you’ve done?”

A frigid wash of reality sweeps over Victor. He doesn’t flinch away, but it’s a close thing. All of these thoughts and hopes and dreams flowing through his head are ridiculous and silly and unrealistic. The shock and the grogginess from sleep really must be getting to him.

Victor is this man’s enemy. No matter what The Fox thinks or feels about the situation, no matter how good of a person he is. The Fox may be kind to his friends, but he has no reason to be kind to Victor.

The only value Victor holds here is the little information he has. That’s it. Then The Fox will do what he wants with Victor.

“I do not.” Victor swallows, turning his gaze up at the mess of a ceiling. “I’m sorry. I don’t think that my head’s on straight. I know who I am and what I’ve done, I don’t mean to…”

Victor’s not even sure what he’s doing. He’s never had this much freedom with his thoughts and emotions before. Normally by now, he’d have to catch himself or the ever-watching eyes of his grandfather would rat him out and he’d be punished. But Victor could scream and laugh and shout if he wanted to. Hell, he could _cry_ —though he’s not sure he remembers how.

Part of him thinks that he should still be hiding his emotions, shoving them under a mask of his own, but… He doesn’t know if he’ll even leave this room, much less what comes next. He might as well let himself have this one, small grace.

The Fox stares at Victor for a long moment. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Victor frowns, wondering if he still needs more time to wake up because The Fox doesn’t many any sense. “Mean what? That I don’t deserve kindness? Of course I don’t deserve it. I’ve hurt more people than I’ve helped. Why _would_ I?”

A furrow forms between The Fox’s brow as he continues to stare unflinchingly at Victor. “Would Mikhail think himself worthy of kindness?”

Victor starts at the mention of his grandfather’s name. He’d almost forgotten that the man had one. Victor always called him grandfather, and for everyone else, it was “Your Highness” or “my lord” or whatever ridiculous title that he wanted. To hear him just called by his given name… It makes him a bit more human for being the monster that he is.

“He would think himself worthy of everything.” And that’s not exactly news to anyone. Victor’s grandfather is known for his greediness and gluttony. If he knows it exists and he wants it, then he takes it and makes use of it until there’s no value in having it anymore.

Like Victor.

“Exactly.” The Fox leans in a little closer. ”He does what he does because he thinks it’s right and it’s what he deserves. It’s why we all do anything, isn’t it? Then why have _you_ fought me all these years, only to help my friend and me escape, and then _let_ me slice into you?”

Victor glances away. “I never said that I let you.”

The Fox scoffs. “Sure. You can’t expect me to just not notice that you moved to block me and then gave up halfway there. You’re a better fighter than me. That shouldn’t have happened.”

Victor turns his head—a little too fast, the world tilting for a second.”Now _that_ isn’t true. If we were to duel, not fight to escape or protect something with other people around us to worry about, we would be evenly matched. You’re the _only_ person I’ve ever lost against.”

That pink flush comes back across The Fox’s face, an even darker shade than last time. “Fine, you can be stubborn. But you’d better heal up quickly so I can prove my point. We’re fighting the moment I know you’re well enough that you can’t hold back.”

Victor arches an eyebrow. He’d think that getting the information that Victor has would be more important, but he supposes it’s not like he’s going anywhere anytime soon. “Okay.”

“Now, you’re avoiding the point.” The Fox presses a finger to Victor’s chest and Victor hadn’t noticed he’d lost his shirt until suddenly there’s skin-on-skin contact and he startles a bit. “What and who do you fight for, Victor Nikiforov?”

Victor has to catch his breath before he can process those words, much less respond. The Fox is so free with casual touches, and yet Victor is easily pinned down under a single finger to his sternum, almost afraid to breathe and make The Fox draw away.

Why is Victor so weak to this?

And why does he like the sound of his own name on this man’s tongue when he never liked to hear anyone say it before?

Victor takes in a shaky, slow breath and only lets it out when The Fox’s finger doesn’t move. “I fight because I’m told to, or else…” Victor’s voice is rough, and he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Because it’s an excuse. He could say that he’ll be punished, isolated without food, or far worse. He could say that more freedoms will be stolen, more of his personality ripped from him. He could say that his friends will be killed right in front of him.

But so many people suffer from all of that every day because Victor tries to live. People drain away all of their lightning, their energies, their _souls_ in the mills. And even with that, they might not have enough food to make it until they’re drained dry. And if they try to make their lives any easier, they could get arrested and either executed or sent to work on the farms—which is worse according to some.

Victor chose to enforce that. He tried to help where he could, but what does that matter against what he’s done?

“Because of what?” Of course The Fox pushes. Victor probably would too in his position.

Victor huffs a laugh, though it sounds more like a cough—his mouth is drier than he’d thought. In what world would Victor be the hero? “Does it matter? Nothing justifies what I’ve done. What _does_ matter is the lives I’ve ruined and the fact that you need information from me. Right?”

The Fox purses his lips for a moment, looking Victor over. Then he gives a short nod, averting his eyes. “Let me get you some water.”

Victor wishes that The Fox’s agreement didn’t hurt. He knows that he’s beyond saving or redemption, but he’d hoped…

Well, he knows better.

And besides, he has a wonderful distraction as The Fox stands up. He’s shirtless as well, and Victor had been so caught up in his face and expressions that he hadn’t even noticed.

The Fox has more scars than Victor does, but he supposes that’s what he gets for living a much more dangerous life than Victor. There’s a lovely pattern of them across his body; Victor has the vague memory of escaping The Hive to go skating on a frozen lake one winter, and they remind Victor of the cross-crossing of the marks left behind by their skates. Did he feel as free as Victor had been as a small child when he’d gotten them?

And then The Fox turns, and Victor gasps in a breath.

The phoenix is on full display across The Fox’s back, watercolor wings spreading across his shoulder blades, the colors so bright that Victor would almost expect the heat of a flame if he reached out and touched it.

The Fox sighs as he walks away, Victor turning to watch the muscles on his back flex as he does something or other. “Are you really going to keep being this dramatic the entire time? I know I’m not that attractive, and you don’t have anything to gain by playing with me other than my anger. And I’m the one taking care of you, so I don’t recommend that.”

A small, choked noise escapes Victor’s mouth. The Fox has to be messing with Victor. He can’t seriously think that he’s anything other than stunning. Maybe not the ridiculous, polished beauty that you’d see in The Hive, but something more than that charade. It takes a moment for Victor to find his words, and when he does he manages to choke out, “But you’re _beautiful_.”

The Fox turns around, rolling his eyes as he does so, and walks toward Victor with a crude sort of cup in his hands. “I’ll have to keep an eye on your temperature.”

Victor’s in the middle of preparing a speech to prove this man is being absolutely ridiculous when it first strikes him that he probably shouldn’t fight with his captor, which leads him to his most important realization:

The Fox isn’t wearing his katanas.

It isn’t like Victor’s a threat, he knows this. But Victor wouldn’t trust his grandfather or any of the other generals without a weapon at his hip no matter how crippled they were. If they wanted him dead bad enough, their own death would mean nothing.

Victor knows The Fox has fought some of The Hive’s most elite warriors—generals and soldiers and royals—and won. You don’t do that by underestimating them. And Victor is one of the worst of the worst in the public’s eye. They’ve seen him enforce arrests, uphold the “law,” even if it’s nothing dramatic and he managed to work around it for most of his teen years. Maybe he even saved people back then—but that was a long time ago and he’s made many mistakes since.

The point is that Victor’s dangerous. He doesn’t have his shashka, but his real weapon flows beneath his skin, sparking and humming as he reaches for it in his mind. He could reach out and electrocute The Fox as easy as breathing if he got a good grip.

Yet The Fox kneels next to him again, legs and arms within easy reaching distance. In fact, he reaches out in front of Victor with the cup, his other arm coming to wrap beneath Victor’s neck in a warm, gentle embrace as he supports Victor writing upright without too much strain on his injury.

And if Victor’s murmured, “Thank you,” comes out a bit choked and broken, The Fox lets him keep his dignity by saying nothing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And in return for his life, Victor traded everything he had. He gave away himself.”
> 
> Boi, you’ll be HAPPY he has your life in your hands and you will be BEGGING HIM to keep it in a matter of chapters, smh
> 
> And then there’s Katsuki “I’m gonna beat the shit outta you when you’re better” Yuuri, SMH
> 
> Anyway, they're dorks and that's why we love them. Thank you all so much for still hanging around and reading, and I hope all is well on your side of the screen!!! <3 <3 <3 And also HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next day or so—Victor’s not sure exactly how much time passes—he sleeps more than he ever has in his life. Well, he doesn’t remember what it was like when his parents were alive, but ever since Victor fell under his grandfather’s custody, he’s had to get up like clockwork or else there will be punishment. Back when he was little, it was only small things: he wouldn’t be able to eat breakfast, or he’d spend the entire rest of the day in the training yard until he’d collapse. He remembers sleeping in on purpose a few times.

Victor wouldn’t dare do it now while the consequences are so severe.

In fact, he keeps waking up and gasping, scrambling to get up until his wound reminds him exactly where he is and what he’s doing. He’ll lay there and pant for a moment, choking on his breaths as panic threatens to overcome all of his senses.

He’s not in The Hive.

He’s safe.

He’s _safe_.

Victor laughs quietly to himself as he slowly relaxes his muscles, focusing on evening out his breathing. How horrible is it that he feels safer with someone who’s outright tried to kill Victor multiple times as opposed to anyone at “home?”

No, not even just _feels._ He _knows_ he’s safer. His grandfather made it clear that Victor’s betrayal to The Hive will not be tolerated, and failure to protect the outpost meant his own execution as soon as he returned. Victor’s the most talented warrior that The Hive has, but what does that matter when he’s already serving the enemy?

And that’s just ironic in a way. If Victor hadn’t let The Fox and his friend escape, he wouldn’t be injured. The Fox couldn’t have blown up the outpost if he were dead. He wouldn’t have injured Victor.

Yet just lying here, letting his thoughts and mind drift off, is the freest that Victor’s been in years. Just the thought of killing The Fox makes Victor’s insides squirm, and he has to push the idea away as quickly as it occurs to him. No, Victor’s not sure exactly what Agape’s end goal is, but it’s better than whatever his grandfather has planned. If it comes down to a choice between The Fox and Victor, it isn’t even a choice for him—in fact, he’d be happiest to have the both of them dead.

Victor refuses to go back to being a tool for that man.

The Fox has been gone for a while, leaving shortly after Victor woke up and he made sure that Victor was okay. He said that there was a stash of supplies within traveling distance, and he hadn’t wanted to go while it was storming out, but he also wasn’t planning on having to take care of two people instead of just himself. Victor thinks that he’d said that it would take at least a half a day, but he can’t quite remember—Victor was already dropping off again.

He’s never felt so tired in his _life_. He means to try and sit up, to take in the place where he’s staying, but he doesn’t. He keeps saying to himself that he’ll move in just a few minutes after he wakes up a little, but instead he falls right back to sleep.

It makes him feel useless and trapped in his own body, but he doesn’t know how to fight it. He’s never had the opportunity to let himself feel tired; there just wasn’t room for it. He remembers getting caught napping when he was small, and it just wasn’t worth it.

Now it almost seems like his body is punishing him for all that lost sleep. It’s freeing to be so alone—but also terrifying. It’s been years since his grandfather told the servants and guards to breathe down the back of Victor’s neck constantly or _they’d_ be punished, so he’s always known that he’s never been truly alone. Even when he goes off to do whatever task his grandfather thinks he should be doing, there’s a team with him.

It’s like Victor can breathe for once in his life—and yet he’s also constantly braced for someone to come in and catch him.

In that way, the sleep is a blessing in disguise. He escapes the paranoia and the pain and ache that lingers in his body. He escapes thoughts of his grandfather, and The Hive and…

And Chris.

Something deep within him _stings_ when he thinks of Chris. Sometimes it makes him want to toss off his blanket and throw something across the room while screaming. Sometimes he feels tears burning at his eyes as a part of himself breaks just remembering Chris and the person that he was. Other times he’s just numb, his limbs weighing too much to even move, his breaths taking so much effort that Victor wishes he could just stop for a little while.

It’s such a horrible tragedy. It’s so _pointless._ All of these bright lights just snuffed out of existence because Victor messed up— _No_. Victor tried to do what was _right_. He’s not sure if Chris would agree with him; it’s not like they’ve ever talked politics. They didn’t care about that stuff when they were kids, and they only ever talked about practical things while he was the head of Victor’s guard. But even with rarely being able to talk to Chris, his having Victor’s back was the only reason Victor ever felt a modicum of safety.

And now he has no friends. He hasn’t had allies in a very, very long time. He’s alone. At some point, people from The Hive will come to see what happened with Victor’s team and the outpost. Maybe The Fox won’t be here to protect him while he’s weak and useless. They’ll drag him out, not caring about his wound because his grandfather wants him dead or alive. He’ll be tossed around so much that he’ll begin to bleed, being woozy from something other than exhaustion and shock by the time they throw him in the dungeon.

It’s dark. It’s always so _dark_. And it’s always just too cold for Victor to be comfortable. Sometimes Chris will bring Victor a blanket when he sneaks in some food, maybe…

No, Chris is gone. Everyone is gone. The only people that care about Victor are the ones that hate him, who only use him for his skill or are interested in his head as a trophy for their collection.

It’s damp down here. Never cleaned very well, either. The smell of mildew is almost enough to be overwhelming, but nothing covers up the smell of human waste and upset bodies from fear and rage and terror. It made it hard to force down his food that Chris normally brought, but he knew that he’d be here for a while and this might be his only chance to eat.

But there’s no comfort for him now. The person outside of his cell is a stranger, someone who’s only loyal to Victor’s grandfather and the paycheck that he gives them. Victor was spoiled rotten, afforded so much comfort that he didn’t deserve while he followed his grandfather’s vile orders. Now this is his punishment.

Time passes before he’s dragged from his cell. He’s weak, he’s disgusting, his eyes burn at the blinding daylight—but none of this is new.

What is new is that, instead of being tossed into his room and told to freshen up before he has to go right back to his duties, he’s dragged straight to the doorway of the throne room.

Victor struggles before the guards open the doors, but he’s too weak and they barely even notice. They open the door, drag Victor through, throw him on the ground, and then leave.

Victor trembles. His breathing comes in and out too quickly. He should try and calm himself. Instead he’s _weak_. He panics. He’s gotten too soft in his short break from them all. He knows it hasn’t been too long—but it’s been long enough. And the people here are vicious enough to constantly be throwing rocks at his armor to find the weaknesses and make dents that rub against his skin, create calluses. But there are new weak spots now, and his calluses are gone.

Victor can’t bring himself to look up at his grandfather. He can’t— He _can’t_ be here again. He won’t survive it. He has to— He _needs_ to get out.

And go where? There are walls to this city. It takes a hell of a team to get in and out of them; Victor still hasn’t figured out how Agape does it. The Fox only cares about him as long as he’s useful. But he said that Agape already has information on the other outpost, and Victor’s injured and a pain to care for.

He remembers being a teen and having his grandfather tell him he’s too much—he’s too loud, he’s too rebellious, he thinks too much, he talks too much, he’s _too much_. So he ripped it out of Victor and threw the bloody tangle of it on the floor.

But The Fox has only seen those annoying parts of Victor. Victor had thought that he might as well live his life while he can, but what if Victor’s personality was enough to ruin him? What if The Fox was around and just watched him get taken, relieved because no information was enough for putting up with Victor? He’s been told so often how flawed he is, how many things he needs to work on—it wouldn’t surprise him.

“Look at me,” Victor’s grandfather growls, and he’s close, far too _close_.

Victor can barely breathe. He’s sweating, and he’s hot, and he doesn’t want to look up. He won’t look up. He can’t look up.

“I said _look at me_.” He’s closer, so close that Victor could see his feet if he shifted his head. He doesn’t though.

Victor’s trembling; the world is trembling; he’s going to break and shatter to dozens of little pieces. He wishes it would just be over. He wishes that he could break down or pass out before his grandfather does anything to him.

But Victor has never been particularly lucky.

His grandfather grabs him by the shirt, dragging Victor up from the ground so that they’re face to face. Victor’s feet are still touching the ground; he could stand, pull away, run. But he can’t move. It’s just like last time. He’s so weak. He’s a coward. So many people would have been so much better off if Victor wasn’t so _selfish_ —

“You do what I tell you to do, _boy_.” Flecks of spit spray across Victor’s face, his grandfather so livid that his face is red with fury. “You know better than this. And now you’ll face your punishment.”

Victor whimpers before he slaps his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide. He _knows better than this_. He cannot show _any emotion_.

His grandfather smiles, sharp as a knife as he scents Victor’s overwhelming fear just like a shark tasting blood in the water.

Victor can’t stop making noises, so terrified and so _frustrated_. Why can he cover his mouth yet not fight back? Why isn’t he strong enough? He’s the best fighter out there, he could kill his grandfather in a myriad of ways, and yet he _can’t_ —

“Wake up!”

It’s not his grandfather talking.

“Don’t you dare,” his grandfather snarls at Victor, gripping through the fabric, latching onto Victor’s skin and pulling, _yanking_ —

“Nikiforov, wake up _right this second!_ ”

Victor gasps in a breath, his eyes fluttering open.

The first thing he notices is that he’s wet, and therefore cold despite the fire burning brightly in their shelter. It must be nighttime, then.

The second thing is that his wound _throbs_. He must have been tossing around in his sleep—which isn’t unusual for nightmares like that one.

The third thing, and the sight that pulls Victor out of the groggy claim of sleep, is The Fox. He’s still shirtless—both Victor and his own shirts were sacrificed for bandages for Victor’s wound when he changed them out before he’d left. And his brow is furrowed, lips pursed and turned down as he stares at Victor with wide eyes.

Worried?

 _Why_?

“Good morning,” Victor manages groggily, bringing his hands up to rub the sweat away from his face. It’s been a long time since he’s had a dream like that. He thought that he’d gotten numb to them. “Or, well, maybe night. I’m not really sure.”

“Are you okay?” The Fox asks, eyes wide. “That was— You were…”

“Having a nightmare.” Victor plasters on his usual smile, looking at The Fox, but at his chin instead of his eyes. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about, sorry if I scared you. They’re silly.”

“You don’t have to lie,” The Fox snaps.

Victor startles at the force in the man’s voice, looking up to find a fire in those brown eyes. “They’re just nightmares.”

“You were _screaming_ ,” The Fox hisses. “That’s— I’ve only seen those sorts of nightmares in certain kinds of people. People who have been through… things.”

Victor arches an eyebrow, still maintaining his smile. “Well, I’d say I’ve certainly had things happen in my life. Most people have _things_ happen now and again.”

“Don’t play dumb. And don’t smile at me like _that_.” The Fox’s lips twitch sharply down on the last word, as if he’s disgusted by Victor’s smile.

And Victor’s lips begin to tremble a bit, the adrenaline from the nightmare not out of his system yet. “I’m just smiling.”

The Fox stares at him for a moment, eyes slowly narrowing. “Fine. I get it. We’re on opposite sides of this war. You don’t have to tell me anything. But don’t plaster those fake-as-shit smiles across your face to placate me or try to disarm me. And before you argue that you’re not faking it, I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes _scream_ like that while they’re smiling.”

The smile drops from Victor’s face in a second, his eyes going wide, and the trembling spreading down to his fingertips. Has he been this bad at faking it all this time? Or is it that his dream is actually reality? His defenses are already crumbling away after maybe a day or so away from the safety and protection of The Hive.

His grandfather was right.

Victor is nothing without that awful, disgusting man. And that makes Victor an even worse person than his grandfather.

He should just—

He’s—

He bites his tongue on the keening noise that wants to escape him, like it would actually _help_ anything to prove to this man how weak he is. The Fox is making it perfectly clear that he’s willing to be civil, but they’re still enemies.

At least that’s more than Victor’s grandfather ever did for him.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“ The Fox closes his mouth, thinking for a moment. “Sometimes I say things without thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt you or anything, okay? Can I, um… Can I help?”

Victor blinks a few times, just trying to get enough air in his lungs before he asks, “Help? With what?”

“Well, you know, the nightmare?” The Fox attempts a small smile, but _that_ is truly a terrible attempt at a smile. “You said they were normal, right? What do the people close to you do for you at home? In The Hive?”

A chuckle builds in Victor’s chest, bursting out of his lips as full-blown laughter until it makes his side pull and sting so much that he huffs out his breaths until he can catch them.

People close to Victor. At _home_. How ridiculous. How stupid. Even when he was an actual child, the servants and guards were ordered to show him no kindness. He was meant to be tough, to build an armor that isn’t pierced by any emotions.

And now look at him. Growing soft and weak and stupid only a day or so away from The Hive.

“No,” Victor eventually wheezes out, fighting back his laughter.

More lines of concern have drawn themselves across The Fox’s face. “No?”

“I have no one that cares for me.” Victor’s voice is steadier than he thought it would be, the words smooth and even. “My nightmares are my own weakness, no one else’s.”

The Fox’s mouth drops open a little, eyes widening in… recognition? “No one? Ever?”

Victor settles into his makeshift bed, more scraps of fabric and leaves than anything else, and turns away from The Fox. “What does it matter to you?”

The Fox is quiet. Victor almost dares to hope that he’ll just drop it, but he doesn’t hear the other man shift or move. He can’t even hear his breathing over the fire that he must have stoked back to a roaring flame.

Strange; Victor had thought it was colder than before.

“Okay.” The Fox’s tone is strangely soft, warm and inviting in a way that Victor can’t describe but draws his eyes back to the other man all the same. “Okay. But I-I’m here to take care of you. And your hands are still shaking. Can I— Would it be okay if I held one?”

Victor can only stare for a moment, his face blank. That makes no sense. Weakness like this isn’t supposed to be encouraged and pampered. _Rewarded_ , even.

And yet Victor _wants_ it. More than anything, he wants to reach out and feel his palm against the warmth of The Fox’s skin, to grip and just _hold_ someone.

So he does it. He knows that he shouldn’t as he reaches out a trembling hand and slides it into The Fox’s, but what does it matter? Every path before him leads to an early death anyway. If he goes back to The Hive, he dies. If Agape takes him, he’ll be executed or maybe put to work until he dies the same way they do it in The Hive.

And as he grips The Fox’s hand in his own, he gasps in a breath, the trembling taking over his whole body as an unusual wetness begins to build in his eyes. Not enough for tears to spill over but it feels…

It hurts. It hurts a _lot_. But it feels good.

The Fox wraps his other hand around Victor’s as well, clutching tight for a long moment before Victor’s trembling begins to subside. He focuses on the warmth and the rough calluses of The Fox’s palms, the small soothing circles that he rubs against Victor’s skin.

Until Victor’s still enough to realize that The Fox is shaking now.

As Victor focuses on The Fox’s face, at the careful blankness painting his features, The Fox takes one of his hands away from Victor’s hand and instead places his hand to Victor’s forehead, slight tremors running through it.

Victor leans into The Fox’s touch almost out of instinct, but he doesn’t indulge in it. He doesn’t close his eyes or relax.

The Fox stares intently for just a moment as he takes in the sensation of their skin pressed together before he closes his eyes.

“You have a fever.” The Fox opens those eyes again, meeting Victor’s. “You have an infection.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 You didn’t think this would be easy, did you?
> 
> Also the Katsuki family instincts run Strong in this one
> 
> Things are rough on my end and I'm feeling really sick in all the ways on top of being busy today, so I'm just throwing this up while I have a sec! (If anyone has a chance to share this on social media/Discord/whatnot because I doubt I'll be able to today--hopefully tomorrow--I will owe you a cookie) I hope things are okay on your guys' side of the screen, and as always, thank you so, so, so much for reading <3 <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh.” Victor’s voice is so quiet that he’s not entirely sure any noise actually comes out.

If he has a fever, that explains why he’s sweating. That explains why he’s cold. That explains why he’s having those awful nightmares after so long without them.

And if he has an infection, Victor’s dead.

“I-I know you said you would have no mercy.” Victor’s voice trembles a little as he clutches The Fox’s hand. “But I’ll give you all the information I have if you’ll just kill me. Please.”

The Fox yanks his hand away, and Victor bites back a whine.

“ _What_?” The Fox hisses, obviously disgusted at just the thought of it.

Victor squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just— I know I’ve done terrible things, I know that people suffered because I lived. But I’ll tell you _anything_ that I know to help out anyone that I can. Even if you don’t give me the mercy of a quick death. I know there’s no redemption for a man like me, I just…”

There are hands on his face, palms pressing firm to Victor’s cheeks.

Victor sucks in air and opens his eyes, his own hands automatically coming up to The Fox’s wrists, to anchor him there and keep that warmth from leaving far too soon.

“You are _not_ dying,” The Fox growls, eyes alight with—with _something_.

“But I… I have an infection?” Victor blinks up at The Fox and those blindingly bright eyes, like Icarus toward the sun. “You said I would be more effort than I was worth if I got an infection. And I _am_. I’m useless to you other than my information. I’ll tell you everything, j-just, _please_ —”

“No.” The Fox is so close that Victor can feel the brush of his breath on his skin—which must be something, if he has a temperature. “Absolutely not.”

Something small, broken, and choked crawls up Victor’s throat and he _hates_ it, but what does it even matter anymore? It doesn’t matter how many battles they’ve had, how many times they’ve found each other to be perfect matches in a fight, Victor is only _weak_ in front of this man now. He’s a shattered, wounded thing that just needs more and more from someone who already has thousands depending on him.

Victor wants to apologize for it; for being so needy and flawed and sick. But how does he even begin to apologize for all that he has and hasn’t done? There’s nothing to redeem Victor. Everything that’s supposedly good about him, everything that he can do well, is intrinsically linked to all of the horrible things that he’s done. He’s used his looks to seduce and coerce. He’s used his blade to kill and terrorize. He’s just a weapon for someone else to use.

And now he can’t even be _that_.

He feels like— He’s not even sure _what_ he feels like. But it’s not himself. Not that he even knows what that is, either. He’s nothing but a lump of flesh and bone that causes too much trouble for everyone who deserves peace, and who lets the villains get away with literal murder.

Victor is a _horrible_ person.

Of course The Fox doesn’t want to save him or give him mercy. Victor’s always thought that he at least wasn’t as bad as his grandfather and his generals, the other nobles and their entourages, but what gave him _that_ idea? He deserves this.

But he doesn’t want this.

“Hey, whoa, that’s not— It isn’t— _Nikiforov_.” The Fox’s voice snaps through Victor’s thoughts, making him blink.

His vision’s a little blurred, making it impossible to focus. His breathing is too quick. His head is spinning, his stomach churning, and even though he’s barely been able to eat, he isn’t sure he can stop the bile from rising.

The Fox pulls his and Victor’s hand away from Victor’s cheek, instead pressing Victor’s palm against The Fox’s chest firmly, holding him steady.

“Breathe with me,” The Fox orders.

And Victor’s helpless to do anything but follow that direction.

He doesn’t want to. If it were anyone but The Fox, he probably wouldn’t follow it. But despite the fact that they’ve tried to take each other’s lives, despite the fact that Victor deserves whatever he gets, The Fox has done absolutely nothing to break Victor’s trust. For the short time that Victor’s been in The Fox’s care, Victor’s been faced with more kindness and thoughtfulness than he’s seen in the past twenty years.

If anything, Victor should know at this point not to mindlessly follow orders. He’s finally free from that. This man doesn’t hold anything other than Victor’s own life in his hands.

And yet, Victor wants to follow it. He _wants_ to trust, even though he knows better. It’s so instinctive that his breathing begins to slow and deepen. His vision begins to clear as the constriction around his chest lessens and loosens. His eyes stay locked on the comforting, grounding brown of The Fox’s irises the whole time.

It rattles something deep in Victor that he’s so willingly given over a part of himself to this man. He supposes that he doesn’t really have much of a choice, considering that The Fox is his only chance of survival at this point. It’s not like Victor ever willingly gave his grandfather anything—but this is the first time that Victor’s _wanted_ to give a part of himself.

As he settles back into his head, Victor still can’t look away. He doesn’t want to. Victor knows that he’s just a tool, but even as this man’s _thing_ , a sloppy holder of information that may or may not be useful to him, he’s being treated kinder than anyone else has treated him before this.

He’s never been _touched_ like this.

The Fox’s hands are always firm and steady, but not restricting. For the first time in his life, he’s sure that if he pulled his hand away from The Fox’s chest, he has absolute freedom with his own body.

But he doesn’t want to. The loss of the heat beneath his palm is unthinkable. The idea of that firm hand letting to of Victor’s risk makes the fragile bit of armor he has left crack, his breath hitching and catching, getting faster and—

“Hey, steady there.” The Fox moves his hand up Victor’s face to move a tangled clump of Victor’s long hair from his face—he doesn’t even know when it got untied. He always keeps it tied back, wishing he could just _cut it_ but knowing it’s not worth the punishment…

The Fox frowns at the hair, very carefully untangling the knot with one hand. “That’s really messy, huh?”

A laugh bubbles out of Victor’s lips. “I have an infection and very little clean water. I think my ridiculous hair is the last thing we have to worry about.”

The Fox frowns, gently brushing his fingers through the freshly untangled hair along the side of Victor’s face. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s lovely. Like someone took a star and spun strands from it.”

Victor sucks in a small breath, his eyes widening. He’s been complimented more times than he can count. He knows he’s pretty. He can tell from a few glances and a few words _exactly_ what someone wants from him and how far they’re willing to go to get it. He hates those games, but at least fewer people get hurt with that than when Victor draws his shashka.

But The Fox says it like he’s _scolding_ Victor. Not like he’s trying to flatter something out of Victor, but rather that this is just a simple fact to him, and he won’t hear it argued. For once Victor finds himself fond of his ridiculous, unique hair that makes him stand out no matter what because of the way that The Fox’s eyes follow his own fingers as he gently runs them through it. No pulling or yanking, not _using_ Victor for what he has. But like it’s an honor to be able to touch it.

Victor lets out a shaky sigh, turning to nuzzle a bit into the hand that’s so gentle to him. He just wants to indulge—but he knows that a compliment of his hair doesn’t mean that he’s been forgiven of all his atrocities and he should be careful. “Doesn’t erase the water problem, though.”

The Fox raises an eyebrow. “We’re near the sea. There’s plenty of water.”

“ _Toxic_ water,” Victor mumbles, though The Fox has to know this. He’s just teasing Victor. “I know that limited exposure is alright, but I don’t need it for such a luxurious reason.”

“You’re saying it wouldn’t feel nice, then?” There’s a slight twitch at the corner of The Fox’s lips—he _is_ teasing Victor.

Victor only barely has the energy to glare at The Fox. He really does fit his mask. Sharp, quick, impulsive, and clever. Normally all things that Victor would appreciate—but not so much when he feels just about ready to fall asleep again. How can he be so tired?

Victor winces. Right. He has an infection. He begins to shake a bit again, and The Fox presses his palm to Victor’s face, steadying him—which is almost more frightening than Victor’s imminent death, honestly. Why does touch mean so much to him?

Why does The Fox always give it to him so willingly and readily?

Victor lets out a breath. “Does it matter? You said you would leave me to die if I got an infection.”

“Oh.” The Fox blinks. “I did say that, I’d forgotten.”

Victor gapes. “You forgot you promised to let someone _die_?”

“Yes.” The Fox shifts his hand so he can tap his thumb against Victor’s nose. “Because I changed my mind. You said that you would give me _you_ in exchange for treating your wound, right? Well, you’re no good to me if you’re all beat up and infected.”

“B-but all the time it will take.” Victor tries to sit up, but The Fox moves his hand from around Victor’s wrist, pressing his palm against Victor’s chest to keep him down. For one second Victor’s silent as he feels his rabbit-quick heartbeat against the warm hand of The Fox, and The Fox’s heartbeat against Victor’s own fingertips. It’s a little faster than Victor would have expected, too. It’s odd to think of The Fox as nervous or scared, as off-kilter as Victor is.

But he’s just as human as Victor, isn’t he? He’s also living in close proximity with maybe one of his greatest enemies—Victor can’t think of anyone that would rival himself, at least.

Victor mentally shakes himself. That’s not the _point_. “I can’t even imagine the resources that it would take to stay with me for so long, and there’s nothing even remotely around here where you could restock. The water alone—”

The Fox moves his thumb down now, pressing against Victor’s lips. “The journey home will be tight, but we’ll be fine. I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye throughout the years—to put it mildly—but I need you to trust me for right now. Working yourself up will only make things worse. Okay?”

Victor can only nod and stare. How can The Fox be so confident right now? Victor could be _dying_ ; this could all be a lost cause.

But he won’t be alone. He’ll have The Fox with him.

Victor’s eyes burn with tears that he won’t cry—that he _can’t_ cry. “Thank you.”

The Fox gives a wry smile and gets up—tearing away all of Victor’s contact with him. Victor has to swallow the startled cry in his throat; he doesn’t need to be so _pathetic_. He’s gone his entire life before now doing just fine without any of _this_. He’s fine. Absolutely _fine_.

“Thank me when that wound I gave you is healed, okay?” The Fox rustles around for a bit, but Victor doesn’t dare look—he’s afraid of what he might feel if he does. “I’ll clean it for right now. I thought I’d been doing an okay job, but… Well, obviously not. Okay?”

Victor takes a moment to catch up to the fact that he’s been asked a question—such a ridiculous one, too. “Don’t I belong to you now? You can do whatever you want with me.”

Something dark passes over The Fox’s face, a flash of something as powerful and deadly as he is with both his katanas drawn. “No. No, that— You aren’t my _slave_. I’m not going to— I will _never_ touch you without asking. Or, well, I guess I kinda just did while you were, you know. But you can always say no. Do you understand?”

Victor smiles to try and smother the churning emotions that that causes to rise in his chest, many things that he’d rather not look too closely at. “What if I _want_ you to?”

The Fox settles at his side again with the rags of their shirts with him, and a bucket. The darkness on his face only grows darker. “I’m not even going to joke about that, Nikiforov. I am _not_ Mikhail. I will never hurt anyone who hasn’t tried to hurt me first.”

Victor’s smile stretches. “He’s never—”

“The scars on your body don’t look like they’re all from fights.” The Fox takes some of the rags into his hand and finally looks at Victor. His expression is dark, yes—but his eyes are _alive_. There are shades of gold and a warmth in them like a fire grown out of control—like the outpost when it fell. “I will use your information and anything you can give me against your grandfather. But you surrendered. You aren’t a slave, you’re a captive prisoner. If you want to lie here and rot from your infection, that’s on you. And I did treat you while you were unconscious, but you asked me to take care of you. Now you’re awake and, well, you have a fever and… and you have things going on, so I’m not sure you’re lucid, but I—”

The Fox bites his lip, looking away for a moment. When he turns back, his expression is softer. “I want to take care of you, but we are enemies. If you don’t trust me, I won’t touch you. I’ll try to help walk you through cleaning your wound yourself.”

“No.” Victor’s voice cracks over the word, but he had to get it out. “I— please.”

“Please what?” If this were a few moments earlier, Victor would have expected this to be in a teasing tone, but there’s none of that now.

“Please, take care of me, I—“ Victor swallows, closing his eyes a moment before choking out, “I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t want to die.”

The Fox nods. “Thank you.” And he sets to work.

The bandages have to come off first, and Victor worries about it hurting—but The Fox’s hands are careful and slow. Victor is his prize from their fight, after all.

Though… Maybe not quite that?

“You shouldn’t worry about water, by the way,” The Fox says softly as he sets the bandages aside and shifts Victor a little. “This might sting a little.”

The cloth touches Victor’s wound and— _Goddamn_ , “sting a little” is one hell of an understatement. But Victor clenches his jaw and doesn’t let out a sound.

“My mother, she had a… mentor.” The Fox keeps talking and Victor hones in on his words instead of the pain. “More of a father to her and one other girl, her best friend that she grew up alongside. He knew a lot about science from books that were made before it was restricted to the nobles. I don’t know a lot about him, honestly. He was actually named Victor, like you, but he was far from a Nikiforov. He taught my mom and my friend everything he knew, and after he passed away they continued and perfected his work—they found a way to purify the water without a sensitive, extensive filtration system. They developed a chemical solution that negates the toxicity of the water and neutralizes it.”

The Fox laughs softly as he picks up a clean rag. “I don’t understand how any of it works. My sister’s got a better mind for all of that than I do. I like to keep busy, it helps— Well, it helps. I went into dance and fighting, and they continued to hone the solution to the point that we can carry it with us. I have enough tablets to get us through probably a year—though food would be a bit harder to come by. So.”

The Fox leans back and— Oh. Victor’s all wrapped up. He’d been so focused on The Fox’s voice…

“Can I wash your hair?” The Fox smiles, triumphant as if he just won some argument between them.

And maybe he did. Victor just stares at him for a moment. “You’d do that? For me?”

The Fox shrinks back a little, his cheeks turning just a little pink. “You have nice hair. I’d like to take care of it for you, yes.”

“Please,” is all that Victor can breathe, something in his chest growingso huge and overwhelming and too much—but not enough.

The Fox nods and sets aside the dirty rags, carefully maneuvering Victor so that he’s laying across The Fox’s thighs—which are wonderfully toned yet comfortable to lay on, and Victor would praise them if he wasn’t fairly sure The Fox would accuse him of flirting—his crown near the bucket.

And then The Foxes hands are in his hair and— _oh_.

Victor gives a full-body shiver and melts against The Fox’s thighs, giving a small hum.

The Fox laughs softly as he begins to gently work his way through the knots of Victor’s hair. “I knew you’d like this.”

Victor simply hums and closes his eyes, not caring how soft or weak it makes him seem. He’d sell himself to this man a hundred times over to just have him do _this_ , and Victor doesn’t even have the man’s name.

Victor frowns a little. “What’s your name, Fox?”

The thighs beneath him tense.

Victor’s eyes fly open.

The Fox’s jaw is tense, his face unusually blank as he looks down at Victor—and Victor doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want to ruin this or break it by being needy, taking more than he’s allowed. This man is already giving him _so much_ that he feels more spoiled than he ever did living in a lavish mansion in The Hive.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Victor says so fast that it’s a wonder if The Fox can make sense of it. “It’s just that, well, you know my name, and I don’t know your name. And I can’t thank you without knowing your name. I mean, I suppose I could say thank you, Fox. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Maybe it’s the fever. Of course you want to keep your name from me; you’ve already told me about that water chemical thing! Which is brilliant, by the way. But I’m not really scientifically minded either, so even if I _wanted_ to pass the information on to my grandfather—which I do _not_ —I couldn’t! I-I’m sorry. I’m really, truly, very sorry.”

Victor bites his lip, knowing he’s rambling, that his grandfather would be losing his mind if Victor _dared_ speak this way in front of him.

But that isn’t what The Fox does. As Victor talks, his hands continue to move, continue to work on all the knots and dirt and sweat from Victor’s hair. His face is no longer blank, but instead back to a level of intensity that Victor’s not sure if he likes better or worse than the mask. But eventually, his fingers pause, gently tangled in the hair at Victor’s scalp.

As if he needs to ground himself as much as Victor does.

“Yuuri,” he says softly, so softly that Victor has to hold his breath to hear the delicate sound of a lovely name. “My name is Yuuri.”

A soft smile spreads across Victor’s face as he lets his eyes fall shut, focusing on the gentle touch tangled in his hair. “Thank you, Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Okay, plot time!
> 
> Yuuri: No, I’m going to wash Victor’s hair
> 
> Me: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I hope you're all doing well out there! Thank you so much for reading, and extra cookies for everyone who takes the time to comment <3 <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

Things don’t get better. The Fox— no, Yuuri, a soft and lovely name for a soft and lovely person—stays on top of keeping Victor and his wounds clean and comfortable, and under as little stress as possible. Sometimes Yuuri leaves, but he doesn’t leave for long.

Victor hates that he worries about Yuuri never coming back anyway.

Victor hates when he’s alone. He’s uncomfortable to begin with, either sweating or frigid, his bones aching, and his mind feeling like a muddled, sour soup. He tries to eat as best he can because it makes Yuuri so sad when he doesn’t get it all down, not to mention he can’t recover without nutrition.

And then there are the nightmares. Victor feels like he might as well not even bother to sleep; being awake feels more restful. But inevitably, his eyelids will drift shut, and Victor’s back in The Hive. His grandfather is screaming; Victor’s in pain. He has his sword drawn and some innocent citizen is knelt before him, and Victor’s having to choose between this innocent person and the maid that occasionally pats him on his head and asks how he’s doing, telling him all about her children and the milestones that they’re hitting. He’s being thrown into the dungeons and in the prison cell with him is a corpse—Chris’s corpse, so terrible that it takes him minutes to recognize who it is.

It’s more vivid than real life most of the time. He feels everything so much deeper than he has in years, aches and pains and regrets sinking so deep beneath his skin that he’s sure that it will never go away, that it will keep eating away at him until there’s absolutely nothing left but rotten bones.

Yuuri wakes him up sometimes, but other times Victor won’t be roused and he wakes up with a hand in his, skin so much cooler against the fire raging within Victor. He focuses everything on that touch, that contact. The calluses that tell Victor of a life lived fully, more than playing at politics and following orders. How Yuuri’s hand is a little smaller than his own, and yet it wraps around Victor’s perfectly, like it was meant to be there.

Though that’s silly. Victor has undone so much of this man’s work just by existing; nothing about them is meant to fit together. It doesn’t stop him from wishing, though. From daydreaming about opening his arms and having Yuuri embrace him so tightly that all Victor can feel is the other man, the warmth of him chasing away the icy fears that tear apart his insides.

It’s his silliest fantasy, but probably the one that flickers through his head the most often. It’s a lantern for Victor to use to keep his inner demons at bay, a faint hope even though he knows better than to let himself indulge in it.

What does it matter if he’s going to die anyway, if he hopes for just a little bit more than what he’s getting? After all, it’s not like he’s envisioning a future for himself. What Yuuri’s said has contradicted what Victor thought would become of him after trading his entire self to hopefully live, yes. But Victor’s so used to betrayal that he can’t bring himself to believe that, after giving himself away, the person who owns him wouldn’t punish him for what he’s done.

Yet at the same time, he can’t think that of lovely Yuuri. The same man that keeps Victor clean despite his copious amount of sweat, who tends to Victor’s wound so thoroughly that it almost makes him hope that he might live, who brushes the hair from Victor’s forehead when it sticks there. Victor feels uncomfortable, like his own skin isn’t his own—but Yuuri’s trying his best, and Victor _sees_ that when he’s lucid, and he tries to thank him as often as he can.

Yuuri should be coming back any moment now. Or at least, that’s what Victor thinks. He drifted off for a bit only for another nightmare to wake him up, his stomach churning and threatening to lose what little Victor can keep down.

He sighs, and that’s about all the movement he can handle right now—except that his hair is stuck all over his sweaty face, a tangle underneath his head from his tossing and turning. And Yuuri had just washed it not too long ago.

God, he’s so useless like this. He has no idea how Yuuri keeps coming back to care for him; he’s far more trouble than he’s worth. He’s even offered to give up all the information that he has. He’s a good fighter, but no one in Agape would ever trust Victor. There’s no worth in his body for Yuuri. If their roles were reversed, it would have been no time at all before Victor would have taken his shashka and—

Victor’s stomach clenches and he gags, closing his eyes. No. Victor couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Even if their roles were reversed, Yuuri shines too brightly for Victor to ever be able to extinguish that light. He could be the best fighter of Agape, the illustrious Fox, or simply _Yuuri_ , but Victor wouldn’t do it.

And the fact that Yuuri seems to have chosen the same path…

But why? What is there left in Victor to even care about? Maybe there’s some other use for Victor that Yuuri hasn’t disclosed yet? Or… Or, inexplicably, impossibly, he might feel the same way that Victor does.

Victor squeezes his eyes tightly shut. No, he can’t let that thought go any further. He has his one hope, one impossible sliver of a dream that he allows himself to indulge in. That’s it. He won’t have any more.

For now, he needs to get this damned hair out of his face. He does his best to shift, grimacing but not letting any noise as he moves his injury a slight bit. It’s not a good sign that it hurts _that_ much, and he already knew tha, but the reminder doesn’t _help_. His hands are shaking and weak and nothing’s working exactly as it should and Victor feels like he’s just moving his hair around instead of doing anything useful.

And he’s already _exhausted_ again. Hot, sweaty, disgusting, trembling, and exhausted. That’s all that sums up his life right now.

“Do you want me to braid it?”

Victor starts, but only a little—not even enough to agitate the wound. It’s Yuuri’s voice, after all, and that’s nothing to be afraid of.

“Yuuri!” Victor lets the joy shine through in his voice as much as he can with his exhaustion,—but from Yuuri’s frown, he doesn’t quite get fully there. “How do you know how to braid hair?”

Yuuri shrugs a little, shuffling around as he sets his things aside, things that Victor doesn’t pay a moment’s attention to and instead stays focused on watching how Yuuri moves about the area. Yuuri mentioned that he took on dancing _and_ fighting when he was younger, and it’s so easy to tell. All of his movements look like a performance that Victor could never look away from.

Victor wonders what it’s like to see Yuuri _truly_ dance, to put on a performance instead of just the habits in his everyday movement from what he learned when he was younger. He must have had an excellent teacher, whoever they are. Victor wishes that he knew who it was. He wishes he _could_ know, but he’s the enemy and Yuuri is _off-limits_ ; he knows this.

Yuuri settles down and once again lifts Victor’s head up onto those lovely thighs, a wry smile across his lips. “You didn’t listen to a word I just said, did you?”

“Hmm?” Victor blinks, trying to think back. Yuuri might have been talking while he was moving around, but he might not have. Victor honestly can’t remember either way. Which is really a shame, because Yuuri has such a beautiful, soothing voice.

Yuuri shakes his head a bit as he runs his fingers through Victor’s hair, and Victor hums and melts into his touch. The only benefit of having long hair is how he feels when Yuuri plays with it, like nothing exists besides Yuuri’s hands in his hair.

Well, he feels hot and gross and like his mind is skull is stuffed full of cotton, but that’s beside the point.

“You aren’t doing any better, are you?” Yuuri’s voice is soft as he lays his hand across Victor’s forehead—something he does almost an anxious amount, but no one will find Victor complaining about it.

“I don’t know.” And it’s the honest answer. Victor can barely remember a few hours ago, much less anything else. He doesn’t know how long has passed, how much time they’ve wasted here. He doesn’t know his chances of survival. All he knows is that he’s somehow still here, and so is Yuuri. “What did you say before? I’m sorry, I was distracted.”

“By _what—_ You know what, I don’t actually want to know that.” Yuuri taps Victor on the nose, a small assurance that he’s teasing and Victor hasn’t done anything wrong. “I was talking about how I know how to braid hair. I used to have long hair.”

“Oh.” Victor’s eyes widen a bit. Yuuri looks lovely with his short, soft-looking hair, but he’d look stunning with long flowing hair. Oh, and how it would flow around his mask, coming loose if he’d tied it back in the heat of battle… Or maybe even a dance?

“Me and my friend both grew it long when we were younger. We learned to braid on each other.” Yuuri’s hands slow a bit as he begins to separate portions of Victor’s hair out, twisting them. “I think she wanted to do it because she liked it, but I… There was someone who I admired and I wanted to have hair like his. I wanted something to remind me of him considering that I couldn’t even talk about him. And then…” Yuuri’s hands still, his gaze growing distant for a moment.

“And then?” Victor prompts quietly after a moment of waiting.

Yuuri jolts a little, fingers springing back into action. “I realized that maybe people were right about him. Now I’m not so sure.”

“He sounds interesting,” Victor murmurs, letting his own eyes lose focus. He’s not sure what he means by the word “interesting” entirely, though he can’t help but wonder about Yuuri not being able to talk about him. Victor wasn’t allowed to talk about certain things, sure; but he can’t imagine such a caring, brave person coming from someone as controlling as his grandfather. The idea of telling Yuuri what he can or can’t talk about makes something burn in Victor, something hot and angry and _red_.

“Are you _jealous_?” Yuuri smiles down at Victor, gently brushing the short fly-aways from Victor’s foreheadwith small touches that settles Victor a little bit. “Well, you shouldn’t be jealous. Not you, of all people.”

“Why?” Victor’s not jealous, not really—but the idea of explaining what he really is sounds so horrible and exhausting that he just lets it slide away.

Yuuri doesn’t go still, not like before. His hands card through Victor’s hair, but his expression goes quiet as he watches his fingers move.

“It was you,” Yuuri murmurs, the words somehow soft and yet sharp enough to stab through Victor’s chest.

“How?” Victor can barely breathe the word, can’t even hear it as his heartbeat picks up and races in his chest. Someone like Yuuri couldn’t have _admired_ someone as replaceable as Victor. He knows what he’s done, and he knows what he _hasn’t_ done. Yuuri has to know too.

“I don’t think you would remember.” A small smile flickers across Yuuri’s face, coming and going so quickly that Victor half-wonders if he’s imagined it. “I was very young. My parents wanted to show me what The Hive looked like, what happened in there. That way, when it came time for me to choose to do what I wanted with my life, I would be able to understand what they were fighting for and know if it wasn’t a battle I wanted to join.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Victor’s never had a choice in where he pointed his blade. It’s been so long since he’s had a _choice_ in general that deciding something that huge sounds absolutely impossible, a luxury. And, in a strange, overwhelming way, _terrifying_.

“Does it?” Yuuri’s eyes flick to Victor’s for a second, and then they’ve turned toward his hair again to watch his own movements. “I suppose it did help me choose, in a way. They were showing me around a mill, one of the ones that we were planning to liberate. But there was a leak, and there was a raid. I got separated from anyone I knew. And then… you found me.”

“Me?” Victor frowns, his mind trying and failing to race through his memories, to find these wonderful, brown eyes somewhere in the distant past.

Yuuri looks at Victor then, meets his eyes with a soft smile that stays on his face this time. “ _You_. I was a very… _sensitive_ child. I started panicking and crying and I was so small it wouldn’t have been long before I was kicked over and trampled. But you walked right up to me, took my hand, and led me right out of there and into a quiet alley, tucked behind a bunch of containers. And then you freaked out because you didn’t know how to handle me crying.”

Victor’s frown deepens. He really doesn’t know how to handle tears. It’s been so long since he’s cried that he just doesn’t understand them.

Yuuri laughs, either at past-Victor’s idiocy or now-Victor’s confusion. Either way, it’s a lovely sound, and Victor’s almost a little sad when he starts talking again—almost. “You were so silly about the whole situation, I remember being shocked out of crying. And that was good because you said that we’d have to sneak back to safety. But, you see, I was born into a rebellion. I knew what the heir to The Hive looked like. And so I asked you why _you_ had to sneak around. You’re practically a prince! Shouldn’t you be able to do anything? And what you said… It haunted me. For years.”

The smile fades from Yuuri’s face. “You said, ‘Believe me, they want me dead more than they want you dead.’ But that made no sense to me. You have your grandfather. I knew he was an evil man, but he was your _family_. But when I said as much, you gave a laugh that was so cold that I _felt_ it, and then you said, ‘He would love to see me dead most of all!’ And you said it so easily, like it was such a fact of life that it didn’t even _hurt_ to know that the only family you have left would want you dead and—”

Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “You asked me where I could meet up with someone I knew, and we took the long, safe way around. You bought me something sweet and warm to eat, and you didn’t even get anything for yourself. It took me until a long time afterward to realize that with the way you were counting the coins that you had, you probably didn’t _have_ enough for yourself. But you still talked so happily with me the whole time. We talked mostly about my dog, and you praised him without even meeting him. You were so kind, and selfless, and…. And when I finally got back to the meeting place my parents told me about earlier, you didn’t come near, of course. When I asked if you would be okay, you winked and said, ‘We’ll see what kind of mood my grandfather’s in. But it was worth it to meet you. I wish we could have been friends. I hope you have a happy life, that you stay safe, and that we never have to meet again.’ And then you were gone.”

Victor sucks in a shaking breath, reaching up with a weak, shaking hand to take one of Yuuri’s own and clutch it as tight as possible. “I don’t remember. Yuuri, I’m so sorry, _I don’t_ —”

“Shh.” Yuuri brings up his other hand and clutches Victor’s between his palms. “I didn’t expect you to. It was a long, long time ago. And eventually, after years and years, people convinced me that you were trained to be smart and nice and kind, that it wasn’t who you were. But I always wondered why you would come after _me_. No one would have known who I was. And that little act of kindness stuck with me. Paired with how you look, fae and otherworldly and graceful, I begin to think I must have hallucinated it. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

And what can Victor say to that? To _all_ of this? He doesn’t even know what to _think_.

“It was like… I don’t know.” There’s something… _fond_ to Yuuri’s eyes as he looks down at Victor. Something _impossible_ but beautiful and wonderful and Victor couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. “It was like seeing a beautiful painting, or a beautiful flower. It was awe-inspiring for a moment. And with how kind you were, how soft and caring you were _despite_ the fact that you could have killed me in an instant and faced no consequence. _Despite_ the fact that it might have gotten you in trouble with one of the most horrific tyrants humanity’s seen. And I wanted to be close to you so badly one day again, just to look…”

“Well, now you can look all you want.” Victor gives a shaky smile and attempts to wink, but he’s sure it looks anything but flirtatious.

“No,” Yuuri grips his hands a little tighter, something heavy falling across his face. “You don’t have to hide beneath that terrible flirting. Not if you don’t want to.”

Victor huffs out a breath, half-amused, half-offended. “My flirting? _Terrible_? I’ll have you know I’ve seduced some of the highest-ranking, most-desired nobles within The Hive.”

“Did you do it because you wanted to?” Yuuri’s eyes searching Victor’s face. “Or because you _had_ to?”

He did it because it was the only way that no one was hurt.

No one but himself.

The thought’s so jarring that Victor twitches, sucks in a breath and chokes on it. He didn’t— Did he? He was always so sure of his actions and why he was doing everything he did in The Hive, but now that he’s out, now that he’s like _this_ , everything’s so confusing.

“Maybe they let you because they wanted something too. I don’t know.” Yuuri shakes his head a little. “I just… I couldn’t live like that. I couldn’t seduce anyone if I tried, anyway.”

“Why not?” Victor frowns, a small spark igniting in his chest. How _dare_ he say that when Yuuri’s the most attractive man that Victor’s had the honor of meeting. “You’re _more_ than attractive, you could pull it off. I don’t recommend it unless you _want_ to, but you’re beautiful.”

Yuuri gives a wry smile.“I’m not good at much, but I’m very good at being me. And I’ve never… That’s not something that’s up my alley, alright?”

“Why do you say it like that?” Victor’s words come out sharper than he expects them to, but he’s too tired to take it back. “Like being _you_ is a bad thing?”

“Have you _met_ me?” Yuuri snorts. “Don’t mock me, Nikiforov.”

“ _Never_.” Victor stares up at Yuuri unshakingly. “I wouldn’t ever make fun of who you are. I-I don’t know how I ever made a positive impact on anyone’s life, and I’m so, so happy that I helped you be alive today. But even if I die in the next few hours, or minutes, or seconds, I’m _so_ happy I met you, Yuuri. You are the best thing that’s happened to me in my entire lifetime.”

Yuuri laughs a bit, but this time it’s a little watery and he ends it with a sniff. “Your _entire_ lifetime? There’s _got_ to be something or someone that didn’t stab you in the side and wasn’t able to take care of it well enough so it bloomed into a horrible infection that might kill you.”

Victor shakes his head just a little before he reaches up and gently brushes his fingertips along the soft skin of Yuuri’s cheek. A part of him freezes with fear, afraid to touch, afraid to _want_ , just waiting for the punishment. “I meant what I said. I’m sorry for all of the terrible things I’ve done, but I’m so happy that I at least got to meet you. It was worth it to keep on living through everything, even if I only have a short time left. So don’t you dare insult that. Please.”

For a long, horrifying moment, Yuuri just stares at Victor.

And then his eyes fall shut, and he leans into Victor’s palm just as gentle as Victor’s touch is against him.

“Okay,” Yuuri breathes, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m sorry. I just… I won’t. I’ll just— I’ll take care of you. And then we’ll head out of this garbage heap. And we’ll see who we really are without a fever, and without any ties. Okay?”

“Okay,” Victor whispers as his thumb brushes along Yuuri’s cheekbone, and it’s the most honest, wholehearted promise he’s ever made.

Because for once in his life, Victor wants to _live_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri is literally [this comic](http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=327) (shout out to Rae for finding the link)
> 
> I'm feeling really, really not-good in all of the ways today, so throwing this up really quick before I try and make it through! As always, thank you all so much for reading this little passion project of mine--it's still crazy to me that people actually check out my little passion fics :D <3


	9. Chapter 9

“Y-you dance?” Victor croaks out, his voice even rougher than he expected—which is saying something, considering how ragged and aching exhausted he feels.

“Wha?” Yuuri’s eyes open, his glasses off. It makes him look especially soft. Oh, Victor hadn’t noticed that he’d been drifting off as he sits propped up against the wall, holding Victor’s hand.

It’s ridiculous, and a part of Victor knows it, but he just can’t let go of Yuuri. He starts to panic when Yuuri’s gone for too long. He’s too hot, he’s too cold, he hurts, and he has nothing to ground him—except for Yuuri. And despite the fact that Victor’s too needy, and too sick, and taking too many resources, he sits next to Victor and holds his hand, steadying him.

“I—” Victor closes his eyes for a second, swallowing and trying to get his vocal cords to work right. His head is so fuzzy, his thoughts muffled, and everything is so distant and just out of reach. But he pushes forward because this is important—Yuuri is important. “When you were talking about the water and chemistry, you mentioned that, you know. That you dance?”

“Oh. Yeah, I do.” Yuuri sleepily blinks himself awake, and guilt rises sour and twisted in Victor’s chest.

But Victor knows now that Yuuri’s up and talking that he won’t let the subject drop, and even worse is the fact that Victor doesn’t _want_ Yuuri to go back to sleep. Victor doesn’t want to be alone, not when everything’s so awful and hazy. Besides, if Victor’s decline is a sign that he’s going to die, he’ll take this one, selfish moment of Yuuri’s time before he goes.

“Do you like to dance?” Yuuri asks softly, running his thumb over Victor’s knuckles, more pronounced against his skin now than they’ve ever been before.

“Mmm, I dunno. Never danced before.” Victor clutches Yuuri’s hand tight, though it probably feels like nothing to him with how weak Victor’s become.

“You— _What_?” Yuuri’s spine straightens, his eyes wide and alert, the haze of sleep swept away in an instant. “Aren’t there parties in the center of The Hive? Balls? I heard all about it from— Well, from someone. And there are beautiful outfits, and intricate dances. I _know_ that they exist, I asked all about them.”

A slight smile spreads across Victor’s face and, even in the haze, what Yuuri said about them meeting when they were kids clicks into place. “You want to go to one, huh?”

Even in the dim light, Victor can see the flush on Yuuri’s cheeks. “I-I didn’t say anything like that!”

Victor could push the issue, but he doesn’t have the energy to tease. He blinks, slow and lazy, but he can’t keep his eyes from Yuuri for too long. “I’m not allowed to dance. It’s below me and my duties, apparently.”

“Well then we’ll dance right now!” Yuuri grips Victor’s hand tightly and leans forward—and then his words catch up with him and he slumps a bit. “I mean, the moment you’re well enough to.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t we supposed to fight when I’m well enough?”

“Who says we can’t do both?” Yuuri narrows his eyes at Victor, searching his face. “Who says we can’t have whatever we want?”

Oh. Victor really likes that, _them_ as a unit. As _we_. Yuuri might not have meant anything by it, because of course if Victor survives this they’ll be going somewhere together. But for Victor to just be naturally placed alongside Yuuri as anything other than nemeses, mortal enemies, makes something in him sing, soft yet loud.

If Victor can fight this, he might have a future. And Yuuri might not stay by his side forever; it’s not like Victor would blame him for needing space once the reality of Victor’s character sinks deeper than the child’s memory that Yuuri has of him.

But he doesn’t _hate_ Victor. He doesn’t do anything without kindness, and he takes care of Victor even though it would be far easier not to.

And Yuuri plans for a future where Victor’s next to him, at least for a little while.

Victor can’t help the smile that grows on his face, even as he feels it from his head to his toes. “Okay.”

Yuuri returns his smile for a moment, something soft and beautiful that leaves his face lit with more than the flickering flames of the fire. He takes in a breath, his shoulders squaring a little.

“Did you hear something?”

The smile drops from Victor’s face as Yuuri’s already on his feet, one of his katanas in his hand—how did he even get that so quickly?

No, that doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that the voice doesn’t belong to either of them.

“Hm? No, I got nothing. Besides, the old man said that everyone would probably be dead. You’re imagining things.”

There’s a distant snort. “Would you idiots shut up and do your damned job so we can get headed back? Just get your measurements and evidence and— What the hell?”

“See, I told you I heard something!”

Victor hears it too. It’s high-pitched and awful, fear and agony forming into a wordless noise that Victor wants to stop, needs to stop because it’s close and—

A hand slaps over Victor’s mouth and the noise stops.

_Fuck_.

He didn’t— He never even _realized_ he was making a noise. He can barely even feel his own body. His head is screaming in pain, physical and mental.

They’re here. They’re going to take Victor back. He won’t have Yuuri. No freedom, no feelings, no choice. At least his life won’t be long with his grandfather threatening to end it. Those words might have been a lie, but Victor knows his grandfather has never trusted him. He was never a kind man, but after his son died, he got even worse. At least that’s what Victor’s heard, but it’s hard to deny the evidence and the unanimity of it.

Victor’s grandfather’s youngest son was murdered by a rebel group. There’s no agreement on which one did it; some even say it was royalty. But after the death of his son, he flew into such a fit of rage that he had both of Victor’s parents and his own wife murdered, only keeping Victor as a replacement, to have an heir that he could raise right.

Well, Victor failed at that.

Now he’s going to die. He can only hope he dies quickly with how weak he is from the infection. Maybe in the dungeons, or while he travels there.

And Yuuri— God, _anything_ but Yuuri, he’ll throw himself at them and their weapons and their lightning just to keep him safe.

“Shh,” Yuuri hushes, his body hovering over Victor’s, so close to covering it— But he keeps himself aloft. “I’ve got you. They won’t hurt you. They won’t _touch_ you. Shh.”

Whimpers keep escaping Victor’s mouth and he wants to apologize, to say that he’s _sorry_ , so sorry that he’s what he is, but he doesn’t dare make more noise.

Fingers tangle into Victor’s hair as Yuuri uses his free hand to gently run his fingertips along Victor’s scalp. It’s strange to have Yuuri touch him and not melt into it, but it’s still nice. It still makes his breathing a little lighter.

Victor wants more.

He wants to reach out and pull Yuuri close, to have his body against his, to let him anchor Victor with something there and alive and _good_.

But Victor can’t move. He can barely even breathe.

“I would take them all down for you, no matter how many there are,” Yuuri murmurs so quietly that Victor can barely hear it above his thundering heart and wrecked breathing. “But I won’t leave you unless I have to, okay? They’re going to go away. And if they don’t, I’ll make them. You’re _safe_. I will keep you _safe_.”

Victor can’t make any noise of his own volition, he can’t move, he can’t _anything_. But he tries to focus on Yuuri’s words, because he knows they’re true. Even if he’s exhausted, the only match for Yuuri’s skill is Victor. The things that Victor’s seen him do are what he would consider impossible—but The Fox is a beautiful menace to The Hive.

This is nothing.

He _knows_ it’s nothing.

But why can’t he _move_? It’s like he’s in the throne room with his grandfather all over again, too weak to do the right thing, the thing he should have done long ago. Why can’t he just _calm down_? If anything’s going to kill him, it will be this damned infection. Not some soldiers that probably don’t even want to _be_ here.

There’s a crunch of rocks protesting a heavy weight close by, so close that Victor feels like he could reach out and touch that person’s ankle.

“See, I told you there was nothing.”

It feels like the soldier is right next to him, talking into his ear just like they would while following Victor’s orders. Like he never actually escaped into Yuuri’s captivity. Like this entire situation is just a product of his fever and he’ll wake up only for his grandfather to send him right back out there to try and find and kill Yuuri once and for all. That his grandfather would give _anything_ to have Yuuri and Agape gutted and left to rot.

A scream builds in Victor, something desperate and broken and dying. But he can’t. He _won’t_.

Victor moves his arms—a small miracle in itself—as fast as they can to wrap around Yuuri and pull him close. Which is ridiculous, because Victor’s so weak that he shouldn’t be able to budge Yuuri.

But Yuuri’s taken off-guard. He falls against Victor with a small, “ _Oof_ ,” so quiet that it doesn’t go much farther than Victor’s ears.

It hurts. It aggravates his wound, it’s too much weight on his sore and abused body, and it’s a jolting, _aching_ pain. But it’s also good. It’s perfect.

Yuuri’s warm, all of his muscles and scars soft against Victor’s arms, perfectly slotted against him. The weight of Yuuri feels right. It settles that part of him that’s been screaming for this, even as he tried to deny it.

It doesn’t make it all better, though. Victor can still hear them, the scavengers that threaten to take him from Yuuri. Because Victor trusts Yuuri to defend him, but what if one escapes? What if they inform his grandfather? If he’s made aware of Victor hanging around rebels again, he won’t rest until Victor is dead. Until _Yuuri_ is dead.

Something rises in Victor, something massive and horrifying and _too much_ , something that makes him want to scream and writhe—

But he’ll lose Yuuri. He _can’t_ lose Yuuri.

Victor pulls Yuuri closer, tighter, tucking his face into Yuuri’s neck and whimpering, whining gently into Yuuri’s skin.

He breathes in, and he can’t help but think that he likes the way that Yuuri smells. He knows, objectively, that he doesn’t smell like what most people would call _nice_. There’s the smell of sweat, and musk, and dirt. Victor’s tried not to watch Yuuri use rags to clean himself from time to time, but he can’t keep his eyes away from Yuuri for too long, and he doesn’t seem too shy about it. Not that it really cleans him properly, either. But the smell is something that’s _human,_ something distinctly and uniquely _Yuuri_. That proves that Yuuri’s alive and real and here, in Victor’s arms. And Victor won’t let go. No one can take him away from Yuuri, _no one_.

Yuuri shifts, like he’s trying to pull away.

Victor bites his tongue to try and keep the dry sob he feels tearing him apart inside of him. He can’t do this alone. And it’s terrible, it’s weak, but Victor knows how to accept his weaknesses. Normally it’s so that he can conquer them, but not now. Now he just wants Yuuri, but he doesn’t want to force Yuuri to do anything he doesn’t want to.

But then Yuuri’s arms around him, tight and firm. One of his legs wrap around Victor’s, helping to shift them so that they’re lying on their sides, their weight off of Victor’s wound. Yuuri moves one hand to the base of Victor’s skull, the other on his lower back, and he’s surrounded. He’s supported. He’s— He’s something that he doesn’t have a word or a name for, but even if the panic still scrambles his mind, he releases a shaky breath as his body relaxes.

Yuuri’s body trembles for a moment, but then he’s still, playing a bit with the shorter hairs on Victor’s neck. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. He’ll never so much as _touch_ you again. I won’t let him.”

It’s strange, because in one way Victor’s grandfather and Yuuri are similar. Both of them have owned Victor at one point or another. But while Victor’s grandfather wrapped his hands so tightly around Victor’s neck that he choked, Yuuri’s never laid a hand on him. Not unless Victor asked or wanted it. And it’s impossible to Victor that two people can have the same power, the same _control,_ and use it so differently.

Victor’s spent a lifetime having fleeting thoughts of being free, of having no ties and nothing to hold him back.

But the idea of being tied to this man isn’t so bad. In fact, Victor’s glad that it exists. That they’re bound together by a promise that Victor had made without thinking, desperate and willing to give everything.

But Yuuri only asks Victor for what he’s willing to give.

There are voices, and there are footsteps, but Victor focuses on only the sound of Yuuri’s voice. The sound of his heartbeat surrounding Victor. The hum and vibration of breaths traveling back and forth between his lungs and his lips.

And, finally, Victor can breathe.

“They’re gone,” Yuuri murmurs eventually, maybe a few minutes later, maybe a few hours.

Victor’s long ago lost the concept of time to the heat and the aching, and right now he doesn’t care to get it back.

“Don’t go.” Victor’s voice is small, way too high and too raw and he winces at it—he shouldn’t be weak like this, not when Yuuri was just so brave for both of them.

But he wouldn’t take the words back.

“No.” Yuuri’s voice is steady, shelter in the storm of Victor’s head. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re mine, you said so, and I’ll take care of you. Alright? Is that okay?”

Victor nods against Yuuri’s shoulder, taking a shaking breath. “Please. _Please_.”

“Okay then.” Yuuri goes quiet for a long moment, both of them basking in the silence as Yuuri holds him tight, continuing to play with his hair. “I-I wanted to believe it when I was a kid, but it’s true, isn’t it? You hate it, don’t you?”

Victor frowns a little, shifting like he could somehow get impossibly closer to Yuuri. “Hate what?”

“What Mikhail’s doing.” Yuuri’s voice deepens a little, takes on an edge that Victor hasn’t heard in a while.”Who he is.”

Victor’s grip tightens, his muscles clenching. They got away from the soldiers, and Victor never expects anyone to trust his word. Not with who he is. “What does it matter?”

“It matters a lot,” Yuuri murmurs. “It matters to me.”

Victor just focuses on breathing for a moment, on forcing his muscles to relax so that he doesn’t make Yuuri uncomfortable. He knows what he is. He knows that Yuuri had an idealized version of Victor in his head before he learned better.

But now? Victor’s not sure he knows what Yuuri thinks. He doesn’t want to know.

And not because he thinks Yuuri hates him. This kindness and this comfort for an enemy, for someone that all reason says that Yuuri should hate, tells a story that Victor can’t ignore.

And _that’s_ what terrifies Victor more than anything else.

“I don’t like it.” Victor grits his teeth, forcing out the words. “I h- _hate_ him. But I try not to think about it.”

He tries not to think too much about anything.

“Why not?” Yuuri shifts a little, not moving closer or farther, but like he’s getting comfortable. “You could do _so much_ with your power and reputation.”

A laugh rips its way out of Victor’s chest, so at odds with the moment that it jars even him. “Power? I had everything I’ve ever cared about held over my head, I’ve been tortured with it until I learned not to hold onto anything. The last person he took was my best friend, the only person I had since childhood. For letting you and your friend go, he— My grandfather _took_ him and—” No, Victor isn’t reliving that memory. Not now, when he’s so fragile. Not with his enemy.

Except Victor’s not so sure about them being truly enemies anymore.

And that’s almost more terrifying than Yuuri’s opinion of him.

“I have nothing left.” Victor lets out a breath, going limp in Yuuri’s arms. “I’m no use to him any more.”

Yuuri’s quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his words are hesitant. “Do you even have information to give me?”

Victor swallows, fingers curling slowly into fists. “I… I don’t know. You mentioned knowing about the changes. I don’t know how much my grandfather trusted me with. I hope I know things you don’t. I want to help. But I— I don’t know.”

Yuuri’s silent. His body is tense in Victor’s arms, and he can’t bring himself to pull back, to look up at Yuuri. He can’t stand to see the disappointment there.

“Are you going to kill me?” The words come out more steadily than Victor thought they would—but then again, everything’s different than when Victor first begged Yuuri for his life. And Yuuri has given him so much life, in so little time. “Or leave me here?”

“No.” Yuuri’s voice is rough, some emotion in them that Victor doesn’t quite understand.

“Why not?” It’s strange to realize that Victor would have been afraid of asking that in the beginning, that he would be afraid it would make Yuuri question his decision. He knows better, now.

Yuuri’s quiet again, obviously thinking. So Victor lets him, instead focusing on Yuuri’s fingers in his hair, moving onto the longer strands.

He understands not having the answers to what should be simple questions. He understands looking into a knot of emotion so complicated that he can’t even begin to make sense of it. He understands thinking you understood life, understood _people_ , and instead realized that you couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s hard. And it _hurts_.

But Victor wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Even if Yuuri does leave him to die, or decides to kill him, it’s worth it. Everything’s worth it.

“I don’t know.” Yuuri’s words are so loud in the quiet room that they startle Victor, making his scramble to remember their conversation. “I’ve almost killed you dozens—if not _hundreds_ —of times. I didn’t care then. I was able to leave my past behind and only focus on the evil things that you’ve done. But I care now. Does that make me weak?”

“No.” Victor digs his fingers into Victor’s shirt, holding him tight. “It might make you foolish, but it doesn’t make you weak. Do you want me to kill myself? I’d just need a sword—“

“No!” Yuuri clutches Victor. “Don’t-don’t _say_ that. How can you be so calm while talking about dying? And— That’s just _unthinkable_. Why would you suggest that?”

Victor shrugs a little, looking toward his feet even though Yuuri can’t even see his face. “What is my life worth?”

“It’s worth _so much_ , Victor.” Yuuri’s voice is firm, with no hint of lies or manipulation. And—

Oh. That’s the second time Yuuri’s said Victor’s name. Not his last name and the cursed lineage that it carries, but Victor. Just Victor.

Victor finally manages to pull back, to look up at Yuuri to find those stunning brown eyes alight again, focused firmly on Victor’s face. Determined, focused, unwavering.

How strange that Yuuri can go from wondering why he cares about Victor to _knowing_ that his life is worth saving. Victor has so many reasons to care about Yuuri, and he would easily do anything he could to save him. But it’s a bit of a relief to see that he’s not alone in his confusion, in his desperate need to understand this impossible, nebulous thing that sparked from their collision. A fight that should have ended in a death or a draw, like all fights end, instead becoming… this.

Slowly, cautiously, Yuuri leans forward, as if expecting Victor to pull away. But Victor stays still as Yuuri rests his forehead against Victor’s, brushing their noses together as they move impossibly closer, and Yuuri lets out a shaking sigh.

Victor’s been in a lot of situations where he was close to someone else, where they held him in greed and in need, and yet this is the most intimate moment that Victor’s ever experienced in his entire life. Something in him sings with the feeling of how _close_ they are, with how raw the emotions are on his face and on Yuuri’s. How they’re wrapped around each other; how Yuuri _let_ Victor hold him and then was embraced in return.

Victor doesn’t know what to call this. He’s never seen or known anything like it.

All that he knows is that he’d give everything that he has to keep this. He’d surrender anything for more.

And he knows with all his heart, quietly but with a resounding truth that shakes him to his core, that Yuuri would never, ever take that from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SO THAT ICE ADO TEASER, HUH?!??!?!?!?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Mk4Uykq5I8&feature=youtu.be)
> 
> Sorry not sorry that all of my social media is a constant stream of these boys (somehow even MORE than normal). I'm kazul9 on Twitter and Tumblr if you need a friend to freak out with
> 
> *ehem* Anyway! I'm whipped so I need to go lie down for a bit, but I hope you're all doing well on your side of the screen! <3 As always, thank you all so, so much for reading!!!


	10. Chapter 10

Victor wakes up pleasantly warm. Too warm to be normal, but in a way that’s nice, that’s lovely and soft and… breathing? Victor nuzzles in a little closer and the thing that he’s hanging onto hums softly, contentedly.

_Yuuri_.

He’s still here.

He’s okay.

He didn’t let Victor go.

Victor lets out a long breath. He feels like he’s really slept for the first time in a long time.

He didn’t even have any nightmares.

Not that those used to matter in The Hive. He didn’t really have them there. He still never slept well or deeply. Even his sleep wasn’t his, regulated and interrupted regularly. But Victor was expected to be perfect, so he hasn’t complained in years.

Besides, if he had complained about it, it would have been a sign of weakness, a sign that his grandfather was getting to him. He would have seen that gap in Victor’s armor and torn in, picking away at him piece by piece until he was left fully exploited, broken, and alone.

Victor could complain to Yuuri if he wanted to. He’s already told Yuuri so much, _too_ much, as the fever rages through him. Honestly, Victor doesn’t even remember half of what he’s said because his memory’s never held onto anything that it didn’t have to, but he knows that he didn’t care. That Yuuri knows more about Victor than anyone else who has ever spoken to him before. At this point, Yuuri probably knows more about Victor than he himself does.

But it doesn’t make Yuuri pull away or shy from Victor’s touches. If anything, he’s less cautious, more likely to initiate casual touches that leave Victor happy and Yuuri with a small smile.

And even after yesterday, after being so weak that he couldn’t stop the noises coming out of his mouth, Yuuri was kind. He didn’t threaten to gag him or snap his neck. He smothered Victor’s noises, kept them safe, and comforted him. He let Victor hold on for dear life, thought of his ridiculous wound, and…

Victor doesn’t understand it.

He shifts, moving back a little so that he can gaze up at Yuuri’s sleeping face, and he can’t help but smile. When Yuuri sleeps, he normally sleeps lightly. Victor knows he can wake Yuuri up with a slight movement, so he tries to be careful. But that run-in must have exhausted Yuuri, too. His cheek is pressed flat to the make-shift bed on the floor that Victor’s been using, his lips parted and mouth slightly open. His dark lashes fall thick against his cheeks, his hair even more of a mess than it has been lately.

He’s beautiful.

Victor’s known this; of course he has. He’s been trained to appreciate and aspire to beauty. But the kind of beauty that Yuuri has isn’t something that Victor could chase or acquire.He remembers something about Yuuri’s honesty and his passion being beautiful that first night and—while it _is_ a beautiful part of Yuuri—that isn’t it at all.

No, what makes this Yuuri—face silly and slack with sleep, with _trust_ —beautiful if the fact that he’s _Yuuri_. And Victor still knows so little about him that it’s terrifying to consider that Victor might just find Yuuri lovelier and lovelier by the day. Of course he’ll have flaws—they all certainly have flaws—but the flaws only make him more human. More like someone that Victor can touch, can hold like this.

And more than anything, he wants to keep holding and touching Yuuri. He wants to stay in this little cocoon forever, no matter how aching his bones are and how cloudy his thoughts may be as sickness consumes him. Even if it can’t last. It _won’t_ last. And then…

Victor wants Yuuri, but he doesn’t know in what context.

He certainly doesn’t want him like the people Victor would take to bed in The Hive. Sometimes it could be a little fun, Victor supposes. But it was vapid. He never felt like this around any of those people.

And he doesn’t want Yuuri in the same way that he’s longed to just _talk_ to Chris all these years either, as a confidant and a support for one another.

Those wants were consuming in their own way, maybe overwhelming, yes, but it’s just not the same as this. Just the _ache_ that Victor gets at the thought of leaving Yuuri is unbearable. And Victor’s content with this. With laying here with his arms around Yuuri. With Yuuri holding Victor’s hands as they sit in companionable silence. With every conversation and glance and smile. Victor doesn’t _need_ more, but he wishes that he knew what it meant to feel these feelings for someone, _anyone_. He wishes he knew what he should do—hell, he doesn’t even know what he _wants_ to do.

But for now, it’s okay. It’s what Victor wants, and for once he can have that. Yuuri trusts him enough to do this.

Victor keeps looking, tracing every inch of the relaxed, resting face in front of him until he has it memorized, as if it might disappear. And it might.

This world is cruel, from top to bottom. It doesn’t care for your intentions, it never asks what you’ve been through, it just takes until you have nothing left. It’s a world that his grandfather made; it’s what he _wanted_. It had already been in place for generations before his turn in that hall, on that throne, but his brutality is legendary.

Victor doesn’t want that.

Not for himself, and most definitely not for Yuuri.

It would be so easy to give in and be as awful as his grandfather. He knows where their weapons are in this tiny little shelter of theirs. He knows how to move quietly, quickly. Even with his infection, there’s a chance he might make it back to The Hive. He needs proof, though. Maybe a decapitated head—

Victor gags, biting his tongue as he shifts close to Yuuri.

No. Never. He doesn’t even know how he was able to _hurt_ this man in the past, much less want him dead. It’s such a horrifically impossible thought as Yuuri lies there, breathing softly and unaware. Victor will never fight him again. If it comes down to it, Victor would happily let Yuuri take his life.

Even if he thinks that Yuuri wouldn’t.

Which is a silly thought. Victor’s guilty of so much. If Yuuri takes him to wherever the Agape hide, he’ll know too much to ever be able to let go of. It would be stupid of them to do so. And if Yuuri has no use for him as a captive, that’s that. There is no other choice, and Victor wouldn’t blame Yuuri.

Though it makes it all the more amazing that they’re like this.

If Victor were practically trapped with a man that he knew he’d probably have to kill one day, he wouldn’t dare to sleep so soundly. But then again, he wouldn’t have kept a man he had no use for alive either.

Or would he?

Victor doesn’t remember Yuuri’s story about the two of them meeting when they were kids, but he doesn’t doubt it. He used to try and make a difference whenever he could, no matter how small it was. It was the only sense of himself that he had, back when whoever that was used to exist.

Though… He did let Yuuri and his friend go. He even got caught for it, and he didn’t regret it, not until there was a punishment—and even with that, now that he knows Yuuri, it would have been an impossible choice. It would have been cutting off one of his own limbs.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , a bit of himself remains somewhere in the husk that is Victor Nikiforov. Something that he thought had completely died and shriveled into something brown and brittle has just a hint of life to it. Something that even his grandfather couldn’t snuff out.

Something that Yuuri seems to bring out in him.

Victor lets out a shaky breath, and Yuuri snuffles a bit in his sleep, holding Victor tighter.

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t have a right to whatever Yuuri’s offering him, these selfless gifts that are changing Victor into something that he doesn’t recognize when compared to the man that had been sliced open on Yuuri’s blade not so long ago.

But he _wants_ it. He wants it so deeply and wholly that he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t turn away from Yuuri.

Maybe, just for this moment, Victor will let himself believe that there’s no possible way that he would have ever taken Yuuri’s life. That even if Chris had lived and it would have cost Victor his life to let Yuuri go, he couldn’t have done it. That the little bit of life in Victor that shines under Yuuri’s touch would have stilled his blade.

Logically, it makes absolutely no sense. Victor is known for being fierce and cold and someone who rarely loses a fight.

But even the idea of the possibility that Victor could have chosen that route— _can_ choose that route even when it’s not Yuuri, as he chose to spare The Rodent—if he had the chance is so tantalizing, warm tendrils of something that feels dangerously like hope filling him from head to toe.

Victor moves tentatively closer to Yuuri, his hands shaking as he lifts them up.

It’s ridiculous. Victor should be Yuuri’s enemy. He should fight and die for his grandfather unquestioningly. He knows his place; he’s been told it enough. Victor shouldn’t trust Yuuri—and more than that, Yuuri shouldn’t trust Victor.

But Victor wants to be the sort of person that Yuuri _could_ trust. And if there’s so little of himself left in his soul, too ravaged by his grandfather and all of the pathetic fighting to be anything but his grandfather’s puppet, why can’t Victor build himself to be that for Yuuri?

Because Victor wants to be whatever Yuuri wants him to be. After all, Victor wouldn’t be alive without this man tending to all of Victor’s wounds. He did inflict one of them, yes. But it’s much harder to heal a wound than inflict one. It’s much more intimate to tend to your enemy than to watch them bleed out in front of you.

Victor _doesn’t deserve this_. And nothing can erase the past.

But he’ll do his damnedest to try and earn whatever scraps he can. Because the idea of letting Yuuri down? It’s unthinkable.

How can Victor be so dedicated to a stranger after only days, and yet wish for his grandfather’s death after years?

If his grandfather had decided to throw him on the streets, Victor wouldn’t have lasted long at all. Though it’s more of a miracle that Victor wasn’t killed along with his parents and grandmother. His grandfather has spread different narratives of all of their deaths, but Victor knows better than to hope for anything but the worst with his grandfather. He killed them all, and then he kept Victor because he was blood, and he was young and malleable.

Now that Victor’s older and he didn’t turn out as expected, he’s disposable. Trash. As good as dead, his useful talents not worth all of his failings. His grandfather couldn’t break Victor of his last shred of humanity, the parts of him that care and ache no matter what.

But the idea of Yuuri throwing him away doesn’t fit, even if something in the back of his mind _knows_ that it’s only a matter of time before he leaves Victor, disgusted. Yuuri’s spent so much time caring for him despite his horrible past and the terrible things he’s seen. Despite the fact that Victor’s face is a shining beacon of oppression to most, to Yuuri he’s…

Well, Victor doesn’t really know.

But he wants to find out.

Victor’s fingers brush against the hairs at the base of Yuuri’s neck, and he sucks in a breath as he begins to tremble. It’s as soft as Victor’s always thought it would be, if a little greasy from not having been properly washed in so long.

A thought strikes him, louder and clearer than he’s felt since before the fever—maybe even longer than that.

Victor wants to wash Yuuri’s hair. To pay back the favor, yes, but also because he _wants_ to. He wants to be trusted enough to take care of Yuuri while he’s vulnerable, to make him feel good, the same as he’s made Victor feel good.

A part of him wonders why this doesn’t feel wrong. He’s royalty, the closest thing to a prince that exists. He should be wanting servants to wait upon his every need. But something deep inside him sings at the idea of something so base, so primal—to take care of another person.

The part of him that wonders if he should take more than he gives isn’t him. There’s no part of him that wants that, that doesn’t recoil from just the thought.

That thought isn’t him. It’s his grandfather.

Victor sucks in a quiet breath, the pads of his fingers pressing to Yuuri’s scalp.

Not everything belongs to his grandfather.

_He_ doesn’t have to belong to his grandfather. He can exist. He doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t know if he’s a good person, or someone that Yuuri will find worth saving. But this is his. This is _him_.

“Mmm.” Yuuri stretches a little, his arms tightening around Victor and—

_Oh_ , that feels nice. Victor’s not sure why, but something in him hums at the tightness of Yuuri’s grip. And then Yuuri leans forward, blinking with unfocused, bleary eyes as he sets his forehead against Victor, rubbing their noses together softly, like he’s searching just for the sensation of Victor.

For some reason, Victor’s cheeks warm. He’s not really sure why they do, or why the warmth spreads down to his chest and fuels the _want_ that’s buried there, that first sparked to life during their last battle. But this isn’t the desperate roar of a bonfire. This isn’t anything that Victor’s used to. It’s soft, and it’s comfortable, and it makes him long for something _more_ even if he isn’t sure what that is—but it’s okay if he doesn’t get that, too.

Victor tentatively moves his own nose against Yuuri’s, coming so close that there’s barely any room between them. And it feels good. It feels _right_ in a way that it’s never been to be physically close to someone. He breathes out a trembling sigh. “Good morning, Yuuri.”

“Morning,” Yuuri mumbles as he stills at Victor’s initiated contact, making Victor tense for a moment until Yuuri melts into his arms. “Did you sleep ‘kay?”

A smile twitches to life on Victor’s lips. No wonder Yuuri doesn’t let himself fall asleep often. Victor’s never met anyone so groggy in the morning. Victor’s grandfather would—

_No_. Victor grits his teeth, trying to shift as if he could possibly find more distance to bridge between the two of them. His grandfather is never going anywhere near Yuuri.

“I did,” Victor murmurs softly, too afraid to break the moment. “Better than I have in a long time.”

Yuuri blinks a couple of times, his eyes beginning to focus on Victor’s. “No nightmares?”

Victor’s smile grows a little. Yuuri is kind, far too kind for his own good. “No nightmares.”

“Good.” Yuuri smiles too, lazy and crooked and absolutely lovely. “You deserve a good night’s sleep.”

“Do I?” The words slip past Victor’s lips before he can correct them, take them back and tuck them away somewhere safe where they won’t be so raw and honest.

The joy drops from Yuuri’s face in an instant, and for a moment Victor scrambles, wondering how he can take it back, play it off as a joke—maybe fluster Yuuri with some flirting, because that always works.

But then Yuuri’s hands are moving, untangling from around Victor, and Victor panics. He holds Yuuri tighter, prepared to beg and plead and do whatever he needs to. He didn’t mean to insult Yuuri; he didn’t mean to question him. It was just a stray thought. It meant nothing. None of it means anything.

Yuuri’s palms settle on the cheeks of Victor’s face, holding him steady when he didn’t even realize his world was spinning.

“You do.” Yuuri’s voice is gruff, but it’s earnest. It’s real. “I’ve heard… Sometimes what you say when you’re sleeping, it’s…”

“I’m sorry,” Victor gasps out, his throat tight for no reason that he can find. But Yuuri’s brow is furrowed and his mouth turned down and Victor didn’t mean to _upset_ Yuuri. He never wants to upset Yuuri.

“No, you didn’t do anything.” Yuuri’s eyes sharpen, and suddenly he’s awake. He’s dangerous. He’s not only the gentle Yuuri that’s been caring for Victor, he’s The Fox, as clever as his blades are sharp. “It was what’s been done _to you_ that bothers me. I don’t know everything you’ve done or what you’ve been through, but you at _least_ deserve a good night’s sleep. You deserve more than this.”

“Why?” It’s a choked word, caught in whatever stupid emotions are filling Victor’s throat.

“Because you let me and my friend go when it would have been easier and in your best interest to kill us. You took the time to save me as an adult. And when you could have kept fighting, completed your task, and brought my head to your grandfather, you _didn’t_.” Yuuri stares into Victor’s eyes without a shred of doubt, as if he can be confident of everything he’s saying.

“What if I’m using you?” Victor points out easily, used to games being played with his life. “What if I want to make you trust me, and you’re falling right into my hands?”

Yuuri snorts. “If you wanted to get on my good side, you wouldn’t keep trying to poke holes in your own plans.”

Victor frowns. “But—”

“Victor.” Yuuri says his name so softly and yet so heavily, as if he values it, cradles it before letting Victor himself hear it. “I hear what you talk about when you’re asleep. I see how you flinch to innocent touches and yet melt into them. I know what you’ve said, and you’re not the kind to paint your terrible actions in a positive light. If you’re trying to convince me that you’re going to betray me, you’ll have to try harder.”

“I just…” Victor huffs out a breath, trying to find words to what he wants to say, to express the complicated knot in his chest, but there’s nothing. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Yuuri smiles, moving his hands up to brush the hair from Victor’s face—

And he freezes.

Yuuri sits up faster than Victor can even process in his state, his hand pressed to Victor’s forehead as his eyes grow wider and wider.

“Victor,” Yuuri finally breathes, his mouth spreading into the widest grin he’s had on his face yet. “You did it. Your fever’s broken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUUN  
> It's a good thing, but... what comes next? ( ͡° ͜ʖ⁾⁾⁾) 
> 
> I hope everyone out there's enjoying their weekend and that you're all able to stay safe and healthy! <3 Thank you all so, so, SO much for reading--your responses keep me going every week, and keep me excited for whenever I have a chance/a braincell for writing. :D


	11. Chapter 11

Victor sucks in a breath, Yuuri’s words taking a moment to even sink in. His fever can’t be broken. Can it? “Really?”

“I— Yeah. I’m…” Yuuri clears his throat and pulls away.

And it’s funny how all of the relief leaves Victor as the warmth that’s built between them dissipates into the chill morning air. Victor wants to reach out his arms like a child, a toddler begging to be lifted up and embraced.

But he’s older than that. He’s _better_ than that. He’s always been a ridiculous person, but he can’t stand that fact making him so weak. He’s been giving into it too much lately, and he could blame his fever before—but he can’t anymore. Because it’s silly and childish and Yuuri doesn’t need a leech at his side, craving more and more and never getting enough.

“I can’t believe you’re actually on the mend,” Yuuri murmurs, his hand reaching out to take Victor’s almost as if on instinct.

It bothers Victor how much of a relief it is to have Yuuri’s palm in his. He’s not entirely sure why it was so okay only minutes ago, to bask in it then.

Well, no, that’s a lie. Victor knows why it was okay then. It was why everything was okay. Victor was going to die. There was no way that his broken spirit could glue his mangled body back into shape. But he did it. With Yuuri’s help, he’s better.

And now what’s going to happen?

“You sound disappointed.” Victor smiles, trying to hide the shifting unease in his stomach behind some teasing.

“No, I’m just…” Yuuri spends a long moment staring at their hands before he glances up and looks at Victor, his eyes shining. “I kept thinking when your fever was raging and you were barely conscious that it wasn’t fair.”

It’s all Victor can do to stare for a minute before he can muster out the words, “Why?”

“I just— I know that you were a tool of your grandfather. I don’t know if you remember how much you told me, but I know that you would have fought him if you could—that you _have_ fought him, and in return, he’s taken _everything_ from you.”

“I said— What?” Victor’s mouth is dry, and his head is still fuzzy and fogged and wrong; it isn’t as if he’s completely better right here and right now because his fever’s broken. He knows he said things while he was ill. He didn’t feel like he should hold back. He barely remembers what it is that came out of his mouth between the fever and the exhaustion, but he knows it was personal. He had _just_ thought about how Yuuri knows more about him than his grandfather.

And the fact that Yuuri might use any of that information against The Hive doesn’t bother him even a little. It probably should—it was his home for his entire life—but it doesn’t.

What bothers him is that Yuuri has more knowledge of him than Victor can even remember to use against him. It doesn’t seem like a thing that Yuuri would do. Victor’s so used to reading people that this at least rings true.

But Victor’s never met anyone like Yuuri. Victor can’t know everything that he’s capable of because he can’t fully understand him. And though that’s what makes him beautiful and wonderful, and that’s the same side of Yuuri that chose to save Victor instead of let him die, it leaves Victor on unstable ground in a place where he’s used to having power.

“You look afraid.” Yuuri squeezes Victor’s hand.

Victor blinks the world back into view, focusing on the wrinkle of Yuuri’s brow and the frown of his mouth. He doesn’t like that expression there. He doesn’t want to see that on Yuuri’s face any longer. So the truth springs to his lips before he can think twice. “I am afraid. I didn’t mean to tell you any of that, and—“

Victor flinches, his mind catching up with him.

Yuuri lets go of his hand, and something deep in Victor keens. “You want to take it back?”

Victor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he does want to take it back… But he also doesn’t.

No one has ever known Victor. They’ve known masks that he’s spent his life painting and decorating, adding on bits and bobs that aren’t the Victor underneath. They’re what people want to see when they think of him in all his princely glory, spoiled and sweet, cold and harsh. Whatever they want, he is. Victor controls his own narrative.

He hasn’t controlled it here, with Yuuri.

It was a relief while he was sick and out of it, to know and to be known. But how much does even Victor really know? There are very few things that he has that are _his_ , that can’t be ruined or broken or rejected. He thought he’d buried himself, his weaknesses, down deep enough that he didn’t even know what they were. But a few days in the presence of a stranger makes them come crawling right out of their grave?

His grandfather owned everything in Victor’s life, but he couldn’t even see who Victor was. He could break and kill and tear apart everything around Victor, but it only made him raise his guard, be better at keeping what precious little he had safe.

Only for him to throw it at the feet of a stranger.

Victor’s breathing picks up, his heart rate matching it, and he hates it. He hates feeling vulnerable. He wants to trust Yuuri, he wants to believe what he knows of Yuuri.

But how much does he ever really know? How often has Victor taken a kind hand only for them to hold on tight enough to draw blood?

How long will it be until Yuuri hurts him?

Yuuri pulls his hand away, getting to his feet and walking away while Victor belatedly remembers that Yuuri asked a question, but he can’t remember what that was.

“Well, at least we feel the same.” Yuuri’s voice is cooler than it normally is, more distant. Much more like what it was when Victor was first injured, before the infection settled in.

“About?” Victor barely dares to ask, voice trembling so slightly that he can only hope Yuuri doesn’t notice.

“I shouldn’t have told you about us meeting as children.” Yuuri’s words cut Victor in a way that they shouldn’t. “I only told you because I thought—”

Victor doesn’t share this memory, and Yuuri’s story is just that; a story. There’s no proof that it’s real. There’s nothing to say that Yuuri didn’t just make it up to get close to him.

And yet the idea of Yuuri taking that away, of not trusting Victor with that… It _stings_. It was important to Yuuri. It was something personal, something that was too ridiculous to have just made up. And he ended it as Victor’s enemy, as having hated him and thought that he was evil.

Which maybe he still does.

“Because I’m a horrible person?” Victor croaks out, looking away from the bare skin and the gleaming phoenix on Yuuri’s back. “Because I’m the scum of the earth that doesn’t deserve any of it? If you’ve heard me talk about myself and who I am, surely you have to know that even my grandfather treats me like trash. Like I’m disposable and rotten—hell, I’ve been sitting here and literally rotting away this entire time.” Victor huffs a laugh; his life really is a long string of irony, isn’t it? “You can still leave me to die, you know. No one will care.”

There’s the solid, heavy thump of footsteps on the ground and then there’s _touch_ , turning Victor’s face ever so gently—so utterly overwhelming that it takes a moment for Victor to see the fire in Yuuri’s eyes, to make sense of the words that come out of his mouth.

“Is that why you regret it? Regret telling me all of that? Because you think it’ll make me hate you?” Yuuri’s words are sharp, cutting, making Victor bleed.

“No, you already did,” Victor manages to get out, an emotion forming inside of him, a humming cloud of—of _something_. “Y-You said that you used to look up to me until something happened and you saw me for what I was. I can’t rewrite what happened.”

“That isn’t what I— You know what, never mind.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Then why do you regret it?”

Victor wants to protest, to say he doesn’t regret it. But it’s not true. It’s not true either way, because he wants to tell Yuuri everything, to crack himself open and let Yuuri recover what Victor once lost.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“It’s too much,” Victor manages to grit out. “I can’t— I shouldn’t tell anyone about any of that.”

“Then why _did_ you?” Yuuri’s eyes search Victor’s, and there he goes, falling apart with barely a touch, no torture or torment involved.

“I gave you a weapon, loaded and cocked and aimed at my head.” Victor sucks in a breath—this is _too much_. He needs to stop. But he _can’t_. Not when he aches to reach out and touch, to be touched in return, more than anything. “You almost killed me. I thought I was dying. None of it mattered. I could tell you anything, and it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“And now it does.” There’s something missing when Yuuri speaks this time, and when he pulls away, Victor finds himself unable to even dream about chasing that touch.

There’s something final in those words. A door shut and locked in Victor’s face.

That’s what he gets for telling the truth.

That’s what he gets for trying to be himself.

He _knows better_.

“Well, at least we’re agreed.” Yuuri rises to his feet and looks down at Victor. “I told you because I thought you would die, too. But now we have to clean up our messes, don’t we?”

Victor grits his teeth, but doesn’t look away from Yuuri. He doesn’t back down, despite the way that he wants to crumple under those eyes, to curl up and just be left alone, like he always is.

It isn’t a surprise when Yuuri turns and walks away again.

It _is_ a surprise when Yuuri walks back with a container of water—clean water, from the looks of it.

“What are you doing?” Victor asks, managing to keep his voice steady somehow.

“I’m going to clean your wound.” Yuuri’s tone is dry as he sits down again, reaching for the clean rags—or as “clean” as anything can be here. “Just because your infection is healing doesn’t mean your wound is gone. It’ll still take at least a few days for you to be okay enough to move around again.”

“I know that, but I— _Why_?” Victor’s never met _anyone_ so vexing yet so lovely as Yuuri, and though the idea of being with anyone else during this situation is unthinkable, he can’t help but wish that some things that this man did actually made sense.

“I said we have to clean up our messes, didn’t I?” Yuuri lifts an eyebrow as he sets his rags down. “And you might have your own messes, but _you_ are _my_ mess.”

“Ah. Right.” Well, that makes sense at least. Maybe it is better when Victor doesn’t understand what’s making Yuuri tick. “You own me. I suppose it wouldn’t be smart not to maintain your property.”

Yuuri sighs, placing his hands on his thighs—and Victor can’t help the fleeting wish that it was his head resting there, that he was silly with fever and all that mattered was Yuuri’s hands in his hair. “I’ve already told you that your body and your will are your own. I’m not going to control you. I’m not going to hurt you—not unless you hurt me or someone I care about first. Owning you like a slave isn’t something I want. I owned my dog, and I gave her more respect than you seem to be expecting from me—no matter how much I tell you otherwise. You’re useful to me _because_ you’re you. Are we understood?”

“Then what about me is even useful?” Victor knows on some level that he shouldn’t ask the question like that, that he shouldn’t reveal his insecurities or expect any answers. It’s not like Victor would answer if their roles were reversed. But this is _Yuuri_. “Why do you want me? Why are you keeping me alive? I told you that my information is probably useless.”

For a long moment, Yuuri stares at Victor, eyes searching his face—almost like he’s looking for an answer. And Victor gets it, because no matter how he looks at it, he’s a burden. He has no skills other than fighting, and he can’t do that now or anytime soon. No one in their right mind would ever trust Victor with a sword, anyway.

After all, his grandfather trusted Victor with a sword and Victor could barely stand to break his skin.

Victor is weak, and useless, and worth nothing. If Yuuri’s truly beginning to know him, he has to see that. Even if he’s finding fragments of himself, he’s still a shell of a human being, a puppet with broken strings.

But Yuuri still doesn’t look away. His eyes keep moving. He’s not disgusted, or frustrated. His lips are pressed into a thin line that’s more contemplative than anything.

And Victor is smart enough that he doesn’t dare to even want to understand that expression.

Yuuri’s voice is much softer as he looks down at his hands and asks, “Will you let me clean your wound?”

Victor blinks. “What?” There were a lot of things he expected and feared Yuuri to say and to ask, but that wasn’t one of them.

An indignant part of him insists that they need to finish their conversation. Victor needs to understand this situation, to know how Yuuri feels to figure out what’s going on in his own mind.

But Victor is and always was exactly what his grandfather accused him of being:

A coward.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. “You heard what I said. I know I haven’t asked in a while, since you’ve been in the throws of it and everything was less… like this. But you know better.”

“But— The infection—” Victor splutters out, trying to look for… something. He doesn’t want an escape, but he doesn’t want to give in, either. And he’s not sure what sort of middle ground exists between them now that Victor’s so deeply unsettled at how close he’s let Yuuri get.

“Is pretty much gone, and now you need to heal up before we start moving.” Yuuri sighs.

Victor opens his mouth, but hesitates when his mind catches on one, single word. “We?”

“Yes.” Yuuri snorts gently, in good humor but a little exasperated. “We.”

“Where are we going?” Victor’s hands begin to tremble, and a part of him hopes that Yuuri doesn’t notice, but he probably does. Victor would. It’s what they’re both trained to do, in very different ways. Victor more in social situations and small skirmishes, and Yuuri in more life or death moments with the weight of humanity on his back.

Yuuri’s incredibly brave, and it’s unfair that he’s so kind too, especially when Victor is what he is.

“Well, we aren’t going anywhere if you aren’t better.” Yuuri arches his eyebrow back up, a reminder of the question that Victor never asked.

Victor almost brings up how Yuuri ignored _his_ question—but he doesn’t. He’s too tired to keep fighting, to be so afraid and overwhelmed. And he’ll never admit it aloud, but… He misses Yuuri’s touch. “Yes. Please. I-I’m still weak.”

“I know.” Yuuri’s hands start moving as he speaks, carefully unraveling Victor’s bandages in smooth, practiced motions. “And even if you hate me, even if you stopped talking to me right now because you’re too afraid, I won’t ever hurt you without a reason. I’ve heard about the methods that your grandfather uses to get information, and we don’t do that— _I_ don’t do that. Do you understand that?”

Victor tries to, he really does. But it makes no sense. Victor is a coward; it’s a known fact. If he weren’t a coward, he could have stabbed his grandfather. He would have just let Yuuri go after destroying the outpost instead of trying to fight for his life when he knows he has no life left inside or outside of The Hive.

There’s so much that Yuuri and the entirety of Agape have to fight for. He wouldn’t blame them for resorting to his grandfather’s methods. So, Victor tells the truth. “No, I don’t understand.”

Yuuri’s hands pause in their meticulous work above Victor’s pink and red healing skin, turning his head so that he can meet Victor’s eyes.

The flame is back, sparking to life in flashes of gold and red in the brown of Yuuri’s eyes. “Then I’ll prove it to you. Will you let me?”

“I…” Victor swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Do I have a choice?”

“ _Yes_.” Yuuri sighs again as he turns back to his work, exasperation and fondness obvious in his voice. “You always do. All you have to do is tell me to stop, and I will.”

Victor won’t. It should be a frightening thing to discover about himself, but he doesn’t want to tell Yuuri no. He doesn’t feel afraid when Yuuri’s hands are on him. He doesn’t flinch as Yuuri speaks, he doesn’t wait for inevitable punishment.

But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. It doesn’t matter; it’s something practically set in stone.

Instead, Victor asks the question that still lurks at the forefront of his mind. “When I’m better, where are we going?”

A small smile spreads across Yuuri’s lips as he works, gently wiping the puckered flesh of Victor’s wound. “Home. I’m taking you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this going up so late!!! As I mentioned in my other WIP update this week and [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/Kazul9/status/1337058448610103303), I'm really not doing so well. I actually remembered to post this at least half a dozen times, opened a new tab, and then my thoughts decided YEET. :'D Today's a particularly bad day physically, but thank you to everyone for their kind words and understanding, even if being online and social is waaaay too much for me rn <3  
> And thank you so everyone who's out there reading, and bless everyone who comments even though it'll take me a hot minute to respond <3 <3 <3


	12. Chapter 12

Recovering from his injury without the fever is worse than with the fever by _far_. Yes, having the aching and the sweating and the weakness gone is very nice. Knowing that there’s a much better chance that he won’t die is a plus.

But now Victor’s aware.

Before, he didn’t think. He couldn’t think. Everything was hazy and fuzzy and soft in a way.

Nothing is soft now. His wound itches as it heals and it drives him crazy, waking him up whenever he shifts in his sleep—which is often. He tries to subtly and carefully itch it, but more often than not Yuuri catches him and swats his hand away, sending him a glare that has Victor shrinking back and finding something else to fidget with.

Which is another thing. Victor’s still fairly tired and weak, but with every passing day, he gets a little stronger, some of his energy returning.

And Victor’s bored.

Yuuri comes and goes often, returning with small, wiry game that he’s managed to catch, or small tubers from the earth. Victor helps him out, often managing to sit up enough to clean and prepare the meat so that Yuuri can preserve it however he knows how. And Victor would be lying if he said that he doesn’t preen under Yuuri’s thank yous and gentle smiles at a job well done—at least Yakov taught Victor _some_ practical skills, even if they’re few and far between.

But otherwise, Victor is alone save for the thoughts in his head spinning round and round and round until he’s sick and dizzy with his own failings and weaknesses.

Victor knows that Yuuri’s doing his best to prepare for the trip ahead. Yuuri wasn’t planning to take so long, nor to have another person travel with him. Once again, it would be so much easier to leave Victor behind and go off on his own. He shouldn’t complain.

But Victor’s _bored_.

“Do you have any lovers back home?” Victor lays on his side, lazily watching Yuuri peel some sort of root that Victor feels like he should recognize, but he doesn’t.

Yuuri starts at the sound of Victor’s voice, almost flinging the root across the room. “What?”

Victor waves his hand vaguely, frustrated for a moment that he’s so physically weak while his mind is chomping at the bit. “You know. Lovers. Partners. People that you sleep with.”

Yuuri just stares at Victor for a moment, eyes so wide and startled that it’s somewhat comical. “Why?”

Why is Victor asking? He knows better than to think this is the topic of mild conversation between two people who are allies at best, tense enemies at worst. He might ask something like this of someone he wants to seduce, but he doesn’t want to seduce Yuuri.

Right?

“Why not?” Victor raises an eyebrow, managing to smile a little to hide his unease. “I can tell you about all my escapades in The Hive if you want. Let’s see… When I was—“

“No!” Yuuri squeaks, then clears his throat. “No. I don’t want to hear about that.”

Victor pushes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why not?”

Yuuri takes a moment, focusing on the tuber and stripping away a few more slices of dark skin before he looks back to Victor. “I don’t want to hear about how you were used.”

Victor’s smile freezes in place. “What?”

Yuuri’s eyes turn back to his task, and he doesn’t look back up. “You said, when you were feverish, that you would use… _other_ methods to avoid having to kill and hurt people. And I might be dense sometimes, but I’m not an idiot. And I don’t— That’s not _you_.”

Victor tenses. “I made that choice. It _is_ me.”

“But did you _want_ to?” Yuuri hesitates in his motions, just a fraction of a second before he moves again. “Because if not, it isn’t you. It’s something you’ve done. Maybe to survive. Maybe you were even fine with it while it was going on—I don’t know. All I know is that the person that I thought you were, the person that _you_ think you are, doesn’t add up to who you really are.”

“And who is that, exactly?” Victor’s voice shakes, and there’s no doubt that Yuuri can hear it. But even Victor doesn’t know if it’s from fear or anger or the deep, unsettling feeling of being unmoored. Maybe even all three.

Yuuri thinks that Victor has any idea of who he is, of _what_ he is. Well, joke’s on him.

“Shouldn’t you be finding that answer yourself?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow, and it’s strange for that to be it. Anyone that Victor knows in The Hive would have latched onto his weakness, his fragile voice and thoughts, and tried to use it to snap him in half. But not Yuuri. And it didn’t even occur to Victor that it might have been risky to show that side of himself until right now. He’s growing too soft.

It’s a horrifying thought, to not be wrapped up in his armor that kept him safe from even the majority of his grandfather’s barbed words.

But he doesn’t want it. Not right now when it makes him able to feel Yuuri’s words, to pull them between his ribs and into his core, where they can keep him warm. He’s been so cold and so alone for _so long_. He knows it’s probably clouding his judgment, and his decisions haven’t exactly been the best recently, but…

But he has started to figure out a bit of who he is, hasn’t he? Maybe Yuuri has a point. Maybe this could be a beginning instead of an end.

It seems too good to be true, though.

Yuuri gives a sigh, setting down his work. “Fine, you don’t have to answer. I need to head out and see what else I can stock up on. Are you okay?”

Oh, he’d forgotten that Yuuri asked a question again. Victor can barely keep the scowl off his face as he looks over at Yuuri. His hair’s gotten just a touch longer since they’ve been hiding here, hardly noticeable. There are bags under Yuuri’s eyes, and Victor has noticed that he’s never slept as deeply as that one night when they were curled up together. It’s tempting to invite him close again, but Victor gets it. Yuuri’s sacrificed so much to keep Victor safe, and he knows the wilderness of the lands outside of The Hive better than Victor ever has.

If Yuuri really did have some debt to Victor for saving him when they were children, Yuuri repaid it long, long ago. It’s hard for Victor’s mind to not immediately jump to figuring out why Yuuri must want him alive then, and he keeps tripping and falling into that pit sometimes—but not now.

“Yes, I am. Thank you.” Victor hesitates for a moment, looking down at his hands. “For everything.”

It’s quiet for a moment, no footsteps and no breathing to be heard. For a moment Victor thinks that Yuuri must have left—stealth is a necessity to what he does, after all. But then Victor hears a quiet, soft, “Of course, Victor.”

And Victor looks up to see the hint of a sad smile at the corner of Yuuri’s mouth before he’s gone, out into the open.

It makes Victor a little anxious to be left alone. Without Yuuri to care for him, he’ll die. He’s getting better, yes, and there are supplies here to possibly last Victor until he’s completely better, but where would he go from here? What would he do? Keep wandering in the waste of what was once the world until he keels over, or head back home to his executioner?

Home. It feels twisted and filthy to call that place a home after having been here, with Yuuri. And it says a lot that a rotten, collapsed, hovel of a building feels more comfortable and safe than anywhere in The Hive ever was for him. He’s not sure what exactly it says, but he has plenty of time to mull it over as he helps Yuuri, and as he starts moving around.

He’s weaker than he was when he left The Hive, and the sharp indignity of it pulses through him as he heaves himself to his feet and practices walking, going through the cobbled together exercises and stretches that he and Yuuri put together to work his strength back up. Neither of them are doctors, but Yuuri shows him things that Victor wouldn’t have ever even thought of. It must be from his dancing, but Victor doesn’t question it. He’s a long way from being up to dancing to anything of the sort, so he’ll bide his time.

The days crawl by and the agitation skitters and itches beneath his skin. Not just because he has a hard time moving around, but also because he can’t figure anything out. Who he is, what he is, the right people to be loyal to—if he should be loyal to anyone at all.

Yuuri notices, of course; he’s not blind. He gives Victor more tasks and more exercises—some of which Victor’s pretty sure that Yuuri makes up. There’s no reason that moving in those ridiculous twists and turns would be doing anything to help him. But if Victor’s good at anything, it’s at grinning and bearing it.

Though Yuuri even disapproves of his damn smiles, so he can’t even do that.

“You’re doing it again.” Yuuri looks up at him through his eyelashes as he slides the edge of his katana along the sharpening stone that had been stashed in his bag.

The steady _shick_ , _shick_ , _shick_ is a noise that brought Victor comfort once. His weapon is personal, an extension of him. Its care and maintenance would affect his skill and would be the difference between life and death in a fight against someone like Yuuri. Not to mention, his own shashka is the only part of his father that Victor has.

Victor knows his grandfather too well than to hope that his father had been a good man. But no one talks about him, even casually in conversation and gossip. Nothing’s ever said about him other than the fact that he died by his own father’s malice.

Maybe that’s where Victor gets his weakness from.

But sometimes, when he’s desperate for an escape from his own reality, Victor imagines that the reason that his father was murdered wasn’t because of the unconsolable and uncontrollable grief of his grandfather, and instead because he was a good person. Maybe he tried to help those in the dark district, maybe he tried to rewrite the laws—make an actual change as opposed to Victor’s cowardice. Victor would spend the entire time he sharpened his sword letting his mind wander to a better, softer world, now where the blood running through his veins isn’t vile and rancid.

But he can’t do that right now because he can’t even touch his sword. And he knows why not; he even understands and agrees with it. But it’s frustrating.

“What do you mean?” Victor responds, the shallow, fake grin still plastered on his face as Yuuri continues to work. So maybe he’s being a bit more of an asshole than he needs to be, but it makes something dark and bitter in him crow to have the upper hand while he’s weak.

Yuuri sighs. “You know what I mean. I’m not going to spell it out for you when you’re like this. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” The words slip free of Victor’s mouth before he can even feel the jarring confusion of Yuuri’s concern. He knows he shouldn’t be so abrasive toward the man that saved his life in more ways than one, but he can’t stop it. He’s too restless, he has too much energy, he feels like he’s jittering beneath his skin.

He’s a lot better; he has more energy than he’s had in a while. The wound is closed, fresh scar tissue pink and shiny. He can walk around now, could probably even leave to help Yuuri on his expeditions. Except when he tries to step outside, he _can’t_. He doesn’t want to.

And he doesn’t know _why_.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know.” Yuuri’s eyes flick down toward his work, his shoulders falling a bit. “You don’t have to give me an answer, but… Please don’t lie.”

Victor bites his tongue on all of the responses he wants to spit out, about how Yuuri can’t make him do a damn thing—but Victor wouldn’t mean any of it. It’s Yuuri’s choice to ask, just like it was Victor’s choice to lie.

“I’m sorry, I—” Victor stops for a moment as he forces his smile to fade, looking down at the ground, at the rocks and rubble and junk that make up the floor. He doesn’t want to feel like this. He doesn’t want to _be_ like this. But he is. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

Yuuri’s quiet for another moment, only the steady scrape of metal for a few more glides across the sharpening stone before it’s quiet. Then there’s the quiet rustle of cloth, probably Yuuri cleaning the blade. Maybe planning to head off again.

Victor hopes not. He can feel the chill of the night sneaking into their shelter, and the nights are always the hardest to be alone. It makes no sense considering Victor’s _always_ spent his nights alone, but it’s easier to fall asleep knowing that he’ll probably wake up with Yuuri’s hand in his. He never falls asleep with Yuuri next to him anymore, and he doesn’t know what happens to draw him closer, but Victor’s not going to argue it.

“It’s your turn.”

Victor’s head snaps up as Yuuri places the stone in front of where Victor sits, and then holds out—

“No.” Victor looks at Yuuri with wide eyes, his heart rate spiking up.

Yuuri presses his lips together, but he doesn’t pull the shashka away from Victor. “I need you to be able to take care of yourself out there. Chances are that the distance will be our biggest obstacle, but if we happen across another faction or a feral predator that’s wandered into the area, I don’t know how well I can protect you if I’m taken off-guard. I trust you. Do you?”

Victor’s heart thunders louder, clogging up his throat despite him trying to swallow it down. He can’t hurt Yuuri. He _won’t_. But how many times has he broken direct orders? How many times has he _promised_ himself that he would act a certain way, do a certain thing, but he was a coward instead? He knows that his grandfather can’t control his mind and his actions through any magic powers, but he doesn’t need them. He proved his power over Victor when Victor had his chance to dig his blade right through his chest, to end him.

What would Yuuri say if he knew that Victor had his opportunity to end his grandfather, and he chose _not to_?

“Okay.” Yuuri takes a breath. “Then do you trust me?”

Victor looks up from his father’s sword to Yuuri’s face, to those deep, lovely brown eyes that stare at Victor with no hesitation—and he finds himself nodding before he can even think otherwise.

“Well, I trust you.” Yuuri nods back at Victor. “So trust in my trust. Have faith in my faith. Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and I don’t think we can make it if you aren’t at your full potential. Okay?”

Victor almost opens his mouth to say that he takes it back—he doesn’t trust Yuuri if he’s going to say things like that. But it isn’t true. He still trusts Yuuri, but Yuuri’s trust in _him_ makes Victor uncomfortable, makes him want to pull away and shrink back and never move again.

But Victor doesn’t give into that.

Instead, he reaches out with a shaking hand and takes hold of his shashka.

Maybe he’s done a lot of terrible things on the path of least resistance, the path that gave into his grandfather’s demands— But he _can’t_ disappoint Yuuri.

It’s an odd feeling to unsheathe his blade after so long. He’d barely gone a day without the heft of it or a training blade in his palm. He’s not a fool enough to think he’ll remain a master if he stops practicing, and the guilt twists sour in his stomach for not having practiced for so long.

But he shifts his focus into motions so familiar that they’re as easy as breathing. He’s had to sharpen his blade on the field before, so he knows how it works in the armory or out here. He knows the angle for this grit of stone, the sound that it should and does make at every slide as the blade hones and sharpens into a point so sharp it can cut into his own skin with hardly any pressure.

It files and fine-tunes something in Victor’s mind too. Something in him settles at the sameness, at his own skill. Even if he’s physically weak, even if he doesn’t have his own mental will, he can move unlike anyone else when it comes to fighting, his sword and his lightning illuminating the battlefield and striking down foes without a struggle.

And maybe now Victor could use his sword with good intentions. Maybe not to kill the soldiers he fought alongside but to do… _something_.

“Are you done?”

Victor blinks away from the sword he holds in front of him, polished and clean. He nods toward Yuuri before sheathing the blade and trying to hand it back to Yuuri.

And Yuuri, predictably, pushes it gently back. “No. Keep it. We’re leaving.”

“Now?” The calm that had come with the sharpening begins to slowly eke away as something cold and dreadful fills his lungs.

“Yes.” Yuuri opens his mouth, but bites his lip for a second before continuing. “If you’re ready.”

Well, Victor’s not. Not even a little bit, honestly. But he can see that Yuuri is, and they won’t survive here forever. And at the very least, Yuuri deserves more than this.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” Victor takes a long breath, steadying himself. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we go~
> 
> I FINALLY see my new doc this coming week, so if you have any good vibes/thoughts/prayers/whatever you have to spare, it'd be much appreciated! (And Wigs might go up a _little_ late depending on what's happening) I hope you're all doing okay out there, and that the holidays aren't too stressful for you if you're involved with them at all <3 Thank you all so, so much for reading, and sorry I'm still not too responsive--I don't feel like I'm getting any better as time goes by. Hopefully that'll change soon!


	13. Chapter 13

The sun _burns_.

Victor knows this, of course he does. He’s grown up with the glare of light completely surrounding him. He remembers playing hide and seek with Chris in the gardens while their parents talked and laughed. He’s spent days camped out in the wastes, preparing to lay down a trap for rebels or traitors.

But somehow he forgot.

He winces and shrinks back as he steps out from their mound of garbage—the place that Victor’s come to call home—as the sun blinds him.

Yuuri, unhelpfully, laughs at Victor’s reaction. It especially isn’t helpful that he’s taken his glasses off and he’s a completely different kind of handsome without them on.

So Victor glares at him from the hidden doorway of their shelter.

Yuuri raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just you’re _you_ , you know?”

Victor scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re like, um… the boogeyman for people outside the light district, you know?” Yuuri smiles softly and shrugs. “The great Victor Nikiforov, the personal avenging angel of Mikhail, beautiful and deadly. And afraid of sunlight, apparently. The triplets would be having a fit about this.”

“Ah.” All the anger and irritation drains from Victor, making his shoulders drop, and leaving behind nothing. Just emptiness. “That’s what you all think about me.”

“Well, no. I mean… I used to…” Yuuri’s eyes slide away from Victor’s, his fingers fidgeting.

Victor should understand this. He knows he’s a terror. But it’s one thing to hear the guards talk about how he’s a hollow, heartless shell of a person, and it’s another to see Yuuri, of all people, believe it like it’s a simple fact. That’s all he could ever be to the rebellions that Victor’s been trying to destroy for years.

And these are the people that Victor’s going to meet—he assumes. Yuuri only said _home_ , and the only people that Victor’s aware of existing out here are rebels.

He should probably dread it, but it’s not even half as horrible a thought as seeing his grandfather again is.

Yuuri takes a step toward him. “But that isn’t what you actually are—“

“Isn’t it, though?” Victor gives a half-hearted shrug and a sad smile as his eyes adjust to the rubble around him. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” Yuuri reaches out and takes Victor’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight. “I know that you didn’t want to become what you are. I know that you were forced to commit the crimes that you were accused of.”

“That I should be _committed_ for.” Victor knows that he could pull away from Yuuri, let his hand lie there limp, to further his point.

But he doesn’t want to. His fingers tremble between Yuuri’s, and he’s afraid he might fall apart without this small comfort. It’s almost ironic that he needs extra strength to argue for his demise with the one person he’s ever found in this world who wants to keep him alive.

“I had choices.” Victor looks down at the ground between them, at the dirt and metal and rotted wood. “I didn’t have to be what I was or do what I did.”

“Or?” Yuuri’s grip tightens just a bit.

“Or what?” Victor looks up, not surprised to see the tension written across Yuuri’s face, the fire sparked in his eyes.

“What would happen to you if you refused and rebelled against your grandfather?” Yuuri juts his chin out a bit, as if daring Victor to say that his grandfather’s done nothing to him.

But they both know how much of a lie that would be.

“I—“ Victor huffs out a breath. Why are the words so hard when he’s pretty sure that Yuuri already knows at least part of it? Either that, or Yuuri can guess. He’s not an idiot. “My punishments were… tolerable. It didn’t change me or my actions much at first, when I was young. That’s when he looked toward other people. And I— Sometimes I chose one person above the masses.”

“But you also saved me and my partner when you didn’t have to, when it cost you a life precious to you.” Yuuri’s voice is a bit quieter, and Victor doesn’t dare to meet Yuuri’s eyes to see what emotion lurks there.

“Yes, he killed my last friend.” Victor spits out the words, rips them from his chest and throws them on the ground. “I hadn’t even talked to him in years to try and protect him. Nothing more than absolutely necessary. I don’t know what his life was like. I don’t know if he had others caring for him. I—” Victor chokes on the words, a frustrated growl escaping his lips instead.

He shakes his head, pushing through. “He killed them all. He killed _everyone_ , just like I knew he would. He took away anything that I cared about. I should have let him kill me. I _knew_ better. Yes, he hurt me every time I disobeyed, but I could have saved _everyone_ if I’d just climbed up on the highest balcony and—”

“ _No._ ” Yuuri pulls Victor forward, and he doesn’t resist. He doesn’t have the strength to resist Yuuri anymore.

And then Yuuri’s arms are around him. He’s just a bit shorter than Victor, but Yuuri’s arms are so warm and so tight that he feels completely covered, cocooned and safe from even his mind for just a moment. One of Yuuri’s hands comes up to play with the hairs at the nape of Victor’s neck, and Victor goes completely limp.

Yuuri supports him without even having to shift to account for the dead weight.

“You being here, right now, is worth it,” Yuuri murmurs.

Tears burn at Victor’s eyes, but they don’t escape—just as they never do. “All the hundreds— No, _thousands_ of people that died because of my actions and their consequences are _worth_ this? Worth _me_?”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s voice is so firm, it makes Victor want to believe him, to try and wrap his mind around the impossible. “You’re the enemy’s greatest weapon, and now you’re on the other side—”

“I— I’m not—” Victor interrupts, because he _hasn’t_ made that decision yet. He’s still his grandfather’s minion, he’s still Victor _Nikiforov_.

Isn’t he?

Yuuri holds him a little tighter. “Did you or did you not promise me that you would give me everything? Are you taking that back now?”

“But you— You said that I’m… That I don’t have to?” Victor can’t remember Yuuri’s exact words, but he does remember the shock of Yuuri telling him that he’s not some disposable meat sack.

“No.” Yuuri pulls back enough to meet Victor’s eyes. “I said that you’re still you, _you_ still belong to you. You can tell me no. You can fight back. I can’t own what makes you _you_. But you did make me that promise, and you’ve been following it so far. Are you breaking it?”

Victor shakes his head, no words springing to his lips as his mind struggles to keep up.

“Then you’re mine. You’re not his. And I belong to the rebellion, so you do too.” Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re not going to fight for us?”

“No. I mean, I am.” Victor shakes his head a little. “I’ve killed _so many_ of you though. No one will trust me enough to fight with them.”

“ _I_ want to fight with you.” Yuuri smirks a bit. “We’re going to have that duel once you’re able to rest and eat properly. But besides that, you’ve apparently rebelled against Mikhail enough on your own that saving my life years ago wasn’t big enough to even remember.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Yuuri presses a finger to Victor’s lips. “Don’t apologize. That only proves my point. You had to make choices that no one should have to make. And you struggled against them. You did good when you could. And I— I should have known better.”

Questions bubble and pop in Victor’s mind, coming and going so quickly that he can’t focus on any of them. Yuuri makes it sound like— But he _can’t_ —

Can he?

Yuuri doesn’t need any prompting to continue, though. “It was hard to understand why I saw such a different version of you than everyone else, All the stories didn’t make sense with what I knew.

“And then I saw you in battle. Me and a small group were trying to liberate one of the electricity farms, and then you showed up. And you were as beautiful as you were back then but… You were empty. You didn’t kill anyone who didn’t attack you first, but your reactions were automatic, cold, and without mercy. I didn’t recognize you as the boy who saved me..”

“I-I know,” Victor whispers, the words rough. He’s a terror. He’s a monster. He’s a menace. No apologies will save him from the crimes he knowingly and willingly committed, but the words spill out anyway. “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I’m so _sorry_.”

“And I believe you.” Yuuri’s eyes search Victor’s own. “You’ve done terrible things but, honestly? So have I. I’ve let people down; people have been killed because of me. But I don’t stop—I _can’t_ stop, no matter how much I want to, because there’s so much left to do, so many people that are helpless that I can help. Just like you helped me when we were kids. All I want from you is to help me help them. Okay?”

Victor barely needs to let the question sink in before he has an answer. He can’t be redeemed, he knows that. He never expected to get a chance to do so—he knows the consequences of his choices. He doesn’t know what Yuuri thinks will happen when he meets the rest of Agape when they think of him as evil incarnate, but it won’t be good. Victor deserves it. His only regret would be that all of Yuuri’s hard work keeping him alive might go to waste.

But to do good for Yuuri’s sake? To pay him back by helping to make the world a better place and undo some of the work that Victor and his grandfather did? Of course he will. It feels like Yuuri asks too little of him for all the damage that Victor’s done in his lifetime, but for now, all he can do is nod and give a shaky smile.

For Yuuri, it’s always a yes. Absolutely yes.

“Okay.” Yuuri smiles a little back before pulling away and lacing their hands together. “Then let’s head home.”

__________

The wastes are much different on foot than by vehicle.

It’s still made of the same components, of course. The earth is still cracked and torn, craters spotting the landscape. There are the ghosts of cities and towns every now and again, only crumbling shadows of the great buildings and landmarks remaining. Skeletons of trees rise from the ground, bleached white and fragile, but stubbornly refusing to give up their roots.

Victor isn’t completely sure what caused the end of times as they were before—he doesn’t even know what those times were like. All he knows is that people talk about a before, and he’s living in the after. There used to be scholars that studied and documented the remnants of society before the end, but they were executed and their research burned a long time ago.

All they have is here and now, his grandfather would say. What’s the point in looking back when we can only move forward?

Victor has vague memories of his father fighting with his grandfather over this, something about how they don’t even understand the world they live in _now_ , so how can they look forward when the ground beneath their feet has no support?

Victor jars a bit as the memory seeps into his mind, drawing Yuuri’s gaze for just a moment before Victor shrugs it off.

He hasn’t remembered much about his parents in ages. He thought he’d forgotten everything. He doesn’t even remember their faces. And from that little tidbit, it almost seems as if his silly hopes and dreams about who they may have not been entirely wrong?

Victor shakes his head. No, one conversation doesn’t define a person. Even though he can’t stop his hand from tightening around his shashka.

If his mind is correct and he isn’t remembering some garbled dream as a memory, Victor’s inclined to agree with his father. Now that the countryside isn’t flying by, plain and boring and same as ever, he realizes how little he understands and recognizes of the world outside of his city.

He’s always thought of the world outside The Hive as dead. He knows that plants and creatures exist out in the wastes, but compared to the carefully curated and lush glowing gardens of the light district, or the thrumming, overcrowded streets of the dark district, the broken landscape beyond their walls felt empty and hollow.

But that isn’t true at all.

Yuuri has to stop them and hushes Victor as a large predator prowls by, its teeth and claws a gleaming onyx, their eyes shades of yellow and green, and coat a smearing of brown and blacktop blends in with the charred landscapes. Victor makes the mistake of shifting on his feet and its gaze flashes toward him, lithe form tensing and lowering, as if preparing to attack or to be attacked.

And if there’s something that can prey on this thing that even Yuuri’s afraid to approach, what must _that_ be like?

After that he starts to keep an eye out, and suddenly there’s movement all around him. At the base of the ghostly trees, and between rubble and from the cracks in old pavement where scraggly flora, vines and weeds escape, breaking free by digging their roots deep in the earth to brace themselves against wind and the harsh rays of the sunlight. Small things move in the brush, sometimes making Yuuri stop and reach for his katanas, sometimes passing without Yuuri even looking at them.

It all sounds the same to Victor.

When he’d imagined walking forever into the wastes, he imagined emptiness and the heat and the quiet that he’d come to expect traveling in vehicles, even with a squadron of others.

But truth be told, there’s a good chance that Victor might have been eaten long before he would have died of dehydration. He’s not sure if that’s worse or better, and he doesn’t want to find out.

Despite the fact that he sweats so much that he’s soaked, they’re careful with their water. Yuuri says that he knows all the water sources between their destination and The Hive, and Victor doesn’t doubt him—but it does terrify him.

Everything terrifies him.

The spaces are wider and more open than anything in the light district. The quiet noises and constant movement just out of sight sets him on edge—he’s used to _recognizing_ sound, but each time a bird call echoes across the vast spaces and through the ruins that they reverse, Victor jumps.

Yuuri snickers at him, but he always offers a hand to Victor, despite the heat. A small, ridiculous comfort.

And Victor always takes it.

Yuuri always eventually has to grab for his katanas, or needs both hands to climb up some rubble or earth that Victor scrambles up after him feeling like a baby that’s just learned how to walk.

After days of sameness within The Hive—no, _years_ of sameness—Victor’s heart never stops pounding. He never stops jumping.

It doesn’t help that Yuuri barely seems to be breaking a sweat, only seeming to ever stopping to eat to drink for Victor’s sake. He tells Victor about places and plants around them, but Victor remembers absolutely nothing. It’s too much. It feels like his brain is made of vibrating static, picking and choosing what remains, what circles around to be thought of again and again.

By the time they find a small shelter to spend the freezing night in, Victor practically collapses.

Yuuri, of course, laughs at this too as he starts a fire.

And Victor realizes that he doesn’t even know how to start or manage a fire. He doesn’t know how to hunt. He only knows the bare minimum of how to cook. He knows almost nothing about anything that matters.

He’s so, so useless.

They eat dinner in what Victor hopes is a comfortable silence. It’s all he can do to try and grasp the fact that the wastes aren’t wastes at _all_ , but are filled to the brim with life and creatures that have made this landscape livable despite the old working against them.

The Hive teaches that the wastes are inhospitable, hardly anything able to live out here—absolutely not fragile humans. And without knowing what’s going on, Victor’s sure that he wouldn’t survive.

But Yuuri survives. Whoever lives at his home survives.

Everything Victor thought he knew is a lie, isn’t it?

Victor does his best to help clean up after they eat, Yuuri setting down a sleeping bag as the small fire he dared light burns down to the faintest embers. He gets inside, and it takes until then for Victor to realize that there’s only one. He’s never seen another. But of course Yuuri wouldn’t have packed two; it was only Yuuri out here before. His friend obviously wasn’t there with him when he attacked that outpost.

Which means that Victor will have to brave the freezing temperatures on his own.

“Well?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow as he slips into the thick, woolen fabric.

“Well… what?” Victor takes a tentative step forward. Maybe he can sleep next to Yuuri outside the sleeping bag? Absorb some of his body heat? Absolutely for practical reasons, and nothing to do with the fact that Victor’s feeling empty, his life shaken free from its roots and drifting about unmoored.

“Are you getting in?” Yuuri flaps the blanket up and—oh. There is absolutely more than enough room for two people in there, huh?

Victor swallows, grappling with the insistent _need_ to crawl up next to Yuuri, to be able to hold him and wake with him and—

He tenses, trying his best not to move.

Yuuri sighs. “You’ll die if you’re out there alone with little shelter from the wind. It’s not like we haven’t slept in the same place before.”

A flush blooms across Yuuri’s cheeks at those words, but before Victor can think about what that means, Yuuri’s reaching a hand out toward him.

Victor’s thoughts settle at the sight, at the knowledge that everything may be unknown and new, but this remains the same. Yuuri is _Yuuri_ , and Victor is always helpless to him.

He grasps Yuuri’s hand tight in his own, and doesn’t resist when he’s tugged down into the warmth of the blankets and Yuuri’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ Me: Do not build this like a fantasy world dO NOT—  
> Me: I do what I want ¯\\_( ˘､⁾⁾⁾)_/¯
> 
> In other words, I’ve done absolutely no research on my apocalypse so it’s probably not realistic, but then again there’s already lightning magic so WHATEVER.
> 
> THERE’S! ONLY!! ONE!!! SLEEPING BAG!!!!!
> 
> I figured you all might be getting tired of my constant bedsharing, so prepare for closer quarters with a tenser relationship ( ͡° ͜ʖ⁾⁾⁾)
> 
> Also, sorry about this being so late! I'm not feeling so well and it's been a crazy day, so I'd remember for a second and then the brain food would settle right back in 3: But! It's still Saturday! Technically I'm not _really_ late? :'D Thank you to everyone who still reads this even though my brain is off doing its own thing, you guys are the best <3 Now time for me to lie down for a while!


	14. Chapter 14

It’s warm. Victor knows that he probably shouldn’t, but the moment they’re safe and enclosed in the sleeping bag, he wraps himself around Yuuri, and it feels as natural as breathing.

But for a moment, it seems like Yuuri isn’t going to return the embrace. Victor tenses, making to pull away—

And then there’s a soft tap of Yuuri’s finger on his nose before he pulls Victor close, letting out a long breath. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“I— What?” Victor nearly squeaks, blinking a few times.

“Mmm, I suppose it’s just your nature,” Yuuri mumbles, sounding like he’s somehow already falling asleep.

A small laugh escapes Victor’s lips as his mind tries to make sense of what Yuuri’s saying. “Coming from the man who just invited his nemesis into his bed.”

“Since when have you been my nemesis?” Yuuri nuzzles a little closer, his lips and breath brushing against Victor’s neck as he speaks and—

Oh, this small, shared space might get very uncomfortable _very_ fast if Victor can’t keep himself under control. Victor lets himself take a few deep breaths, reminding himself that this is _Yuuri_. He’s not some spoiled noble, born into money or having found it by crushing smaller people beneath him. He’s not someone that Victor wants to _use_ like he would them. He just wants Yuuri in his arms, exactly as he is.

Victor moves a tentative hand to the back of Yuuri’s neck, running rough fingers gently along the smooth skin. “Since I tried to kill you. Multiple times. It has to be over a decade now, right? And I—” Victor swallows. “Heaven help me, I’ve almost killed you so many times.”

“And I almost killed you. A _lot_. For a while, it was my greatest goal in life. Felt like you personally betrayed me for becoming a monster after you were so nice to me.” He says it so casually, like he isn’t announcing that he wanted nothing more than Victor dead for years upon years.

“Which means you shouldn’t be, well, sharing a bed with you,” Victor says softly. “You shouldn’t sleep where I can stab your back.”

Yuuri snorts. “You let me stab you. _You_ slept with _me_ first _._ And don’t make it sound so lewd.”

“I-I’m _not_ making it sound _lewd_.” Victor tucks his head down lower to hide how his blush burns across his nose, even though there’s so little light to see by. “And it doesn’t erase the point that I’ve tried to kill you just as often as you’ve tried to kill me.”

“Mmm, nope.” Yuuri shakes his head, almost nuzzling into Victor’s hair. “ _You_ didn’t want me dead. Mikhail did. I’m the greater threat here, and you’re the one who got into bed with me. Besides, if you wanted to kill me, you would have done it a long time ago. I’ve seen how you stare at your blade, thinking. But you never make a move toward it. You’ve never tried to surprise or hurt me.”

“I…” Victor swallows.

“Exactly. You keep thinking that you’re some giant, villainous mastermind—and maybe you played that part. But do you really think I’m dumb enough to invite you to even come along with me for this trip if that were true?” Yuuri sounds like he might actually be tired—though more than that, Victor’s never heard him be so blunt before. Not for this long at the very least.

“Of course not,” Victor mumbles, partially wishing that he could escape this conversation, and partially not willing to fall asleepjust yet.

“Then I rest my case. You’re ridiculous.” Yuuri goes quiet for a bit, his breathing slowing. Victor’s almost sure he’s about to drift off when he says, “I know someone, you know. On the inside.”

“Inside of what?” Victor wonders if he should stop Yuuri, he’s so obviously exhausted—but Yuuri isn’t really the sort to be stopped.

“The Hive. The light district. Mikhail’s palace.”

Victor’s muscles tense one by one until his lungs feel tight, his breathing coming a little quicker. “What?”

“Mmm.” Yuuri takes a deep breath. “We have a few people in there. I used to ask them about you.”

“They knew— They _know_ —“ Victor swallows, trying to take in a deep breath and failing again and again.

“Hey.” Yuuri pulls back enough to place his hands on the sides of Victor’s face, holding him steady. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just— No, it’s nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” Victor shakes his head, almost hoping that he can knock off Yuuri’s hands.

But Yuuri holds on tight. Of course he does. “I already asked you not to lie to me.”

Victor squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his breaths to come slower and slower. What _is_ wrong? Why is it so bad that Yuuri sees into his grandfather’s household? Isn’t that a _good_ thing?

Except that at least on the battlefield, Victor holds an image. He holds power.

Back home…

“B-back there.” Victor manages to stutter out, pausing to take another deep breath. “No one has any power, there. We’re all slaves. And if anyone saw me, if anyone _knew_ me, they’d have seen me for the pathetic, sniveling coward that I am. The spineless lackey that just did whatever _he_ asked whenever he asked and— And you talk about _me_ lying, but what about you? You said you viewed me as evil from a fight, but if you _knew_ —”

“If I knew everything you’ve told me, I would have raided the palace and taken you out of there.”

A laugh bubbles out of Victor’s chest. “You didn’t even _know_ me other than as an opponent on the battlefield.”

“I owed you.” Yuuri’s eyes glimmer, the embers of the fire catching in his irises. “You saved my life. You gave me something to fight for, a reason and a drive. If I’d known what was going on, what he was doing to you, I— I don’t know what I could have done. But after you risked your life for me, after you saved me from imprisonment or a life spent working on the farms while my family looked and probably failed to find me, I would have done something.”

“That’s why, isn’t it?” Victor barely dares to breathe the words. “That’s why you saved me after you sliced me open.”

Yuuri pauses just a half a second too long. “At first, yeah. But… I meant it when I first said that if you got a fever, I’d abandon you.”

“But you didn’t.” Victor desperately tries to search Yuuri’s face, to see what he’s thinking, but it’s too dim as the dark of night settles around them.

“But I didn’t.” Yuuri takes a shaky breath. “I know who I saw on the battlefield, now more than ever. A shell of the boy that I once met. Whatever you’re afraid of our people knowing, they don’t know. Mikhail tells people to be as quiet and as quick as possible around you because you’re so volatile and merciless. You were a monster to tell stories about—to most of them. None dared to get close to you, fearing that you’d have them executed.”

And that explains… a lot. Some things would be a stretch of logic, of course. His nights alone in the dungeons, and not knocking before entering rooms. Something burns at him to think that anyone who dared to show him kindness was executed thinking that _Victor_ had them murdered for it, and not his grandfather.

“But we had one person, someone who I used to seek out and who would tell me not to believe the others.” Yuuri’s words come slow but steady, a trickle of thought. “That things are more complicated than we think. He never had stories that shifted my perspective, never any proof. But he believed me when I was younger. He wasn’t against my views when I changed them, but he always asked me to at least still at least stop and think. To understand that there aren’t just two sides, but two people forced into two different situations. And then, when you just _let_ me slice into you, and—”

“I didn’t _let_ you,” Victor says, _having_ to clarify because he remembers that moment vividly, and that wasn’t the choice that he had made.

“You keep seeing that but I _saw_ you.” Yuuri moves in a little closer, as if afraid to let Victor get too far away. “You could have and _should_ have blocked my blade.”

“You’re right.” Victor nods a bit, knowing Yuuri can feel it between his palms. “I was going to. I should have. But I realized that if I blocked you, that I would have to strike. That I would have to kill you, or go home and be killed. And I _couldn’t_ kill you. I couldn’t kill another person with so much life left to live, so much _good_ left to do. So I hesitated. Not because I wanted you to kill me, but because I couldn’t kill you.”

“Oh.” Yuuri breathes the sound, delicate and fragile. He moves his thumbs, rubbing them along Victor’s cheekbones. “That’s why.”

“Yeah.” Victor allows himself to lean into the touch, to indulge himself for a moment—but he can’t resist the bait that Yuuri’s laid out in front of him. “But you didn’t know that back then. So why did you help me?”

Yuuri sighs. “Because your eyes weren’t empty anymore when you were begging for your life. The part of you that was still human was there, present and _screaming_. At first, I assumed it was in pain, and you would be violent when you woke up. I don’t think you noticed, but I hid the blades at first. But you never even tried for them. And the pain in your eyes never matched up with your wound. So I knew.”

“Knew what?” Victor blinks, clutching Yuuri tighter.

“That you were the Victor that I knew. That I had to save your life just as you saved mine; not because I owe it to you, but because it’s a life worth saving. And don’t you _dare_ say it isn’t.”

“I…” Victor wants to insist that all that time and all those wasted supplies would have been better used elsewhere, that he didn’t deserve any of that.

But saying that would be calling Yuuri an idiot, wouldn’t it?

Which means it has to be one or the other; either Yuuri’s an idiot—which Victor knows isn’t true—or Victor’s life was actually worth saving to the likes of Yuuri. And Victor’s not exactly sure how to even begin to believe such a farfetched idea is true.

“Ridiculous,” Yuuri mutters as he leans in and touches their foreheads together, noses brushing. “I don’t care that we’ve fought, I don’t care that we’re enemies. You’re Victor, and I’m Yuuri, and I chose to take your life into my hands. So don’t you _ever_ hesitate to defend yourself again, okay?”

“Yes.” Victor all but hums in satisfaction as Yuuri’s hands lower, going back to holding him tightly. “Not so long as I’m with you.”

“And even if you get bored with me,” Yuuri presses. “Even if you join a different rebellion, even if you decide to go off and start up a farm and raise chickens in the wastes. Your life isn’t worth wasting. To me, it’s—“

Yuuri interrupts himself, sucking in a breath, and then… yawning?

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Victor frowns.

Yuuri shrugs, a motion that Victor feels more than sees. “It’s the first time in a long time I’m crossing the wastes on foot. The vehicle I brought wasn’t something I could have on the return trip, though, and then we had to split up, and… Yeah. It’s my first time with a bee, too.”

“A— A _what_?” Victor’s frown only deepens.

Yuuri snickers softly. “It’s what we call the people who’ve spent their entire lives in The Hive, who don’t understand and aren’t prepared for the wastes.”

“I’ve left The Hive,” Victor protests gently. “I was outside of it when you— when you healed me.”

Yuuri’s quiet for a moment, probably deciding whether or not it’s worth correcting Victor that he’s the one that hurt him in the first place. But then he lets out a long breath. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you know how to survive on your own out here, right? You don’t know what’s edible and what’s not. You don’t know the difference between a rabbit or one of its mutants in the weeds and ruins. You don’t know how to keep off something wild and savage. You’re excellent at fighting people; you’ll adapt. It’s why you need to have your sword. But I still need to be your eyes and ears, because bees are more or less blind once they hit the wastes.”

Victor spends a moment staring into the shadow of Yuuri’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Even without being able to see much, it’s easy to tell Yuuri’s rolling his eyes. “If I didn’t want you with me, I had plenty of opportunities to kill you. I’ve had more opportunities to kill you than you’ve had to kill me.”

Victor grimaces. Yuuri’s _right_ , but he hates this. He’s tired and he’s _done_ with being a useless burden. “Can you teach me?”

“Hmm?”

“Everything I don’t know. How I can help you out the most. I’m tired of being useless. I don’t want to be helpless.” Victor’s voice breaks a little on that last word, and he hates that, too. He hates how soft and weak he is right now. If he were in The Hive, he would never dare to let that happen.

Yuuri’s arms and legs tighten around Victor, squeezing him so tight that it hurts, that it reminds Victor that he’s here, and he’s alive, and he can keep getting stronger from here. “Yes. I can’t teach you everything right now, but we have days between us and where we’re going. You may be ridiculous, but you’re smart, you’re right. You shouldn’t be helpless. You can help out.”

Victor gives a shaky exhale. “Thank you.”

“No.” Yuuri tucks his head beneath Victor’s chin, holding him as close as possible. “Thank _you,_ Victor.”

It doesn’t feel right for Yuuri to thank Victor for him doing something from such a selfish desire—but that isn’t what bothers him most. It feels ridiculous; that’s what _should_ be bothering him. But there’s something small and silly and a thought that hasn’t occurred to Victor in… Well, maybe it never has.

Yuuri’s right. Victor’s absolutely ridiculous. And if Yuuri’s already noticed and called him out on it, there’s no reason to hold back now, is there?

“Vitya.”

“Mmm?” Yuuri hums against Victor’s skin, distracting him for a fraction of a second.

“Please,” Victor breathes, he _begs_. “Call me Vitya, not Victor. It’s sort of a nickname, I guess. Only people close to me use it—and it hasn’t been used by someone who cares about me in many years.”

Yuuri’s quiet for a moment. Maybe he’s listening to the hankering of Victor’s heart, feeling it against his skin. Eventually he pulls back, as if trying to make out Victor’s expression in the darkness. “Then why me?”

Victor can’t help but huff out a laugh. He thinks it should be obvious at this point. “Because you’re _everything_.”

“Oh.” Yuuri’s voice is high, nearly a squeak. Victor feels the hitch of Yuuri’s breath against his skin more than he can feel it.

And Victor wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Yuuri’s said that they somehow aren’t enemies despite _everything_ , but that doesn’t mean that they’re _close_. Victor isn’t sure what they’re supposed to even be. He had friends when he was little, but this is an entirely different category. His friends were wonderful, but Yuuri is beautiful, and kind, and giving, and—

And Victor loves him.

Yuuri moves, coming closer. There’s a brush of something against Victor’s nose. For a moment, he thinks that it must be Yuuri’s finger, tapping him affectionately. But it’s too soft and—

Oh.

It’s Yuuri’s lips. A kiss against the tip of his nose.

“Thank you, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs, voice groggy as he tucks himself back into Victor, still holding him almost as tight as Victor clutches him back. “G’night.”

“Good night,” Victor breathes, his heart thundering in his chest with a feeling, with an _emotion_ that he finally has a word for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned for Victor to tell Yuuri to call him Vitya. Not *waves vaguely at above* _any of the rest_.
> 
> I dunno why I even try and plot anymore, smh
> 
> Also I'm pooped after a long night so I'm gonna be lazy and copy and paste what I said in Wigs yesterday:  
> Heyo! I'm back, if you happened to notice that I fell off the face of the earth for a hot minute there! :'D I won't dump it all on you (if you're as curious and nosy as I am, [I documented the drama on Twitter](https://twitter.com/Kazul9/status/1344095532013088768) and [did a condensed ramble](https://kazul9.tumblr.com/post/640166720475168768/im-back) on Tumblr), but yeah! Prepare for me to catch up on Toungry and Wigs here--I'm planning a chapter every other day for four days but my health isn't doing so hot so... we'll see!
> 
> Thank you all for being so heckin' patient and coming back after that unexpected hiatus. :'D <3 <3 <3


	15. Chapter 15

Yuuri follows through on his word first thing the next morning, explaining how to tell which direction they’re looking, and which direction to head in to travel to Agape. That day they’re headed west, toward the setting sun and the mountains that crest on the horizon.

Victor should maybe be marveling at the fact that he’ll be seeing mountains for the first time in his life, or maybe trying to imagine all the sites that Yuuri mentions are landmarks coming up along the way, but he doesn’t.

He can’t stop staring at Yuuri.

On some level, Victor must have loved the friends and family that he had as a child. He cared about Chris so much that he tried desperately to save him—but Victor was seven the last time that he talked to Chris as an equal and not in stilted, regulated conversation.

Victor doesn’t recognize the feelings that he has in him now, the awe of seeing Yuuri illuminated in the golden-pink light of the sunrise, the humbling warmth at how patiently he explains everything to Victor, smiling at him from time to time as he talks. Victor knows Yuuri still has to be exhausted after so long watching after Victor and now this, but he never snaps or gets grumpy. Even as Victor helps pack up their things and asks far too many questions, Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind.

Victor doesn’t feel like he deserves to love Yuuri, whatever that word even means. It feels like a selfish thing to allow him to experience this sort of casual intimacy that’s blossomed between them. It feels like he’s taking advantage of Yuuri.

But Yuuri already knows who Victor is. Victor’s movements and actions were never kept secret. He has no power to do anything that Yuuri couldn’t have heard about—especially if Agape have people on the inside. Yuuri willingly gives all of this to him, more than Victor could even think to ask. More than he knew could exist.

Yuuri doesn’t seem real sometimes. He’s too beautiful, his body and soul singing with grace like some old world god. Victor often thinks he must be having one of his more vivid dreams and this can’t be reality. But then Yuuri’s taking his hand and pulling him along, smiling at him in a way that almost makes it seem like Yuuri cares just as much about him.

And it’s not like Yuuri’s said anything to the contrary, has he? Whenever Victor doubts, Yuuri reassures him. He’s never hurt Victor. He hasn’t even used Victor, despite Victor exchanging his entire being to Yuuri to keep living. It makes it _feel_ so possible when they’re laughing over mishaps or small stories, when at night they curl up around each other and Yuuri is so warm and so _trusting_.

Not that Yuuri’s all soft, of course. He’s a bit of a perfectionist, which suits Victor just fine. Victor was relentless to himself while learning to master his energy and his sword, and Yuuri rarely gives him breaks to rest. Even when they aren’t encountering anything, Yuuri’s constantly quizzing Victor on noises and what they could mean, on which creatures he should be running from and which creatures he can only pray and fight.

He also brings up The Hive.

“They come all the way out here?” Victor frowns, and his hands clench into fists. His grandfather’s soldiers typically only go out to the farms at the very farthest. They don’t have any farms out this way.

And Victor can’t be seen by them. He can’t _see_ them. Mutant wolves are fine, collapsing buildings are survivable, the nights aren’t even cold when he’s sleeping with Yuuri.

But he _cannot_ survive getting captured.

He _cannot_ survive The Hive.

“Victor. _Vitya_.”

There are palms on his cheeks, warm. A forehead pressed against his own. Brown, warm eyes, looking into his. A furrow above them.

“Yuuri?” Victor says, except it’s a gasp because his lungs are empty and he doesn’t remember running out of breath.

“There you are.” A nervous smile flits across Yuuri’s face as he slides his hands down over Victor’s shoulders, down his arms.

And Victor’s aware of every single inch of contact of Yuuri’s skin against his, settling him inside of his own body, igniting something warm and heavy in him, like a blanket of sorts.

“Yuuri,” Victor breaths, filling his lungs and clutching Yuuri’s hands back. “S-sorry. So sorry, I don’t know…”

“It’s okay.” And with how steady Yuuri’s voice is, how steady Yuuri’s eyes are, Victor believes him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I just wanted to warn you, that its a very tiny possibility. There’s very little chance of meeting anyone out here. I’ve never seen someone from The Hive this far out. I’ve never seen another rebel from another group in this area, even. There’s a reason that we chose out here to have our base. You’re safe. I will keep you safe, Vitya.”

Victor’s breath hitches as Yuuri says his name like _that_. With so much passion and belief that for one moment, Victor lets himself sink into that feeling without question. He dives deep into the fondness that he has for Yuuri, so deep that his very bones ache to stay by his side. His muscles unwind, going almost limp as he leans into Yuuri’s touch.

“Sorry,” Victor murmurs again, unable to help himself. He has to apologize. It’s ridiculous to act this way, and he doesn’t have the excuse of a fever hanging over him this time—there aren’t even any soldiers here to scare him, just the _mention_ of them. He’s stronger than this. He’ll be strong for Yuuri.

Yuuri reaches up with one hand and tucks a few stray hairs of Victor’s fringe behind his ear. “Let’s take a break for a small lunch, and then we’ll work on some tracking. Okay?”

“We don’t have to stop.” Some of the tension returns to Victor’s muscles. He doesn’t need to be _pampered_ ; he can do just fine without stopping whenever he has a _feeling_.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but _I’m_ hungry.” Yuuri raises an eyebrow and drops his bag, beginning to rummage through it. “You’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Victor opens his mouth to protest, but… it’s not like Yuuri’s exactly _wrong_. It’s probably a little past midday and they should eat.

So Victor shuts his mouth and lets Yuuri teach him a bit about the food that he has tucked away in their bags and how to stretch it for as long as possible. He also helps Victor to use his water tablets, and it’s so simple that it baffles Victor. How could the answer to their toxic water be so easy and yet his grandfather does _nothing_ about it?

Yuuri laughs at the expression on Victor’s face at least, so he doesn’t sit on that thought for too long. He knows better than to think too deeply on it anyway. He may know his grandfather better than anyone else on this planet, and that man knows no bounds in getting and taking hold of what he wants, regardless of whether it’s Victor’s life or the entire world.

No wonder he hates Agape so much. Victor always thought it was because they’re powerful, but if he knows they have a way to make the wastes livable for the “bees,” as Yuuri calls them, well…

They don’t stay still for too long, and then Yuuri shows him how to recognize tracks and signs of animals passing through. They’re _everywhere,_ and Victor completely missed it all before. It’s strange how blind he feels, even though he can see just fine.

By the time the rest that night, Victor’s head is spinning with information. And that gets no better the next day or the next, despite Yuuri telling him that he’s learning quickly.

And Yuuri is far too nice to Victor. Though it’s very entertaining whenever Yuuri loses his patience—only with himself, never Victor—and starts swearing in a language he’s never heard before, a language from the old world and Yuuri mother’s mentor, according to him.

It’s so lovely to see the flush on Yuuri’s cheeks whenever Victor parrots the words back to Yuuri, tasting them on his tongue. Even better when Yuuri gently corrects Victor’s pronunciation and he goes completely red when Victor gets it right.

Yuuri even promises to teach him the language when they arrive at their destination—though Yuuri is hesitant to give him any more than the direction that they’re headed in.

Victor gets that he’s from the enemy’s forces, and he understands that Yuuri is viciously protective of the people he cares about—he’s seen that in action himself, multiple times. He himself wouldn’t give any information about where they’re headed if the roles were reversed.

It still stings, though.

It’s common sense to not trust Victor. After all, what has Victor done to prove that he’s trustworthy? Be useless?

It still hurts after how much Yuuri’s said that he trusts Victor.

At least there’s always distraction. Yuuri’s voice is lovely as it wraps around words that Victor doesn’t recognize, even if it’s muttered statements or quick swearing here and there. Victor’s never known another language before, he’s only ever heard that Agape takes advantage of languages long-since forgotten. Not that Victor’s even sure how anyone found them in the first place; most people other than nobility are illiterate.

Which is such a shame, because books were the only escape that Victor managed from time to time.

“What are you thinking about?” Yuuri asks softly as they crest a small hill—thankfully they don’t wind Victor like they used to when they first started out.

He knew he’d lived a spoiled life, but he hadn’t really understood that until he walked away the daylight in the burning sun day after day after _day_.

Victor clears his throat. “Um, books. Stories?”

Yuuri blinks. “Oh? Do you like to read?”

“I— Yes. I did.” Victor smiles a little bit. “Growing up I had a book of fairytales—I think it was what my parents taught me to read with before they passed. I kept it for years after they were gone. The pages had started to fall out.”

“I like stories like that.” Yuuri turns to look at Victor, giving him a grin in return. “Everything makes sense, and everything’s as it should be. Unlike, well.” Yuuri gestures vaguely toward the world around him, and really, he doesn’t need to say more. “Do you still have it? Back at the palace?”

“Oh no.” Victor chuckles. “My grandfather threw it in a fire while I watched after I did something or other, I don’t remember. I think I was around twelve, though.”

Yuuri’s jaw drops slightly. “ _Why_?”

Victor’s smile fades a bit—he didn’t think it was that big of a deal. “Well, according to him, it was fiction. It was filling my mind with ridiculous ideas and thoughts of a world long since extinct for a good reason. He thought that I would think myself like the princes in those stories.”

Yuuri stops walking and turns toward Victor. “You were that prince. To me, you were a hero. And I’m _happy_ you had that book. How _dare_ he _burn_ it?”

Victor nearly takes a step back, brow furrowing. It takes everything in him not to plaster a fake smile onto his face, the only thing stopping him being how sad Yuuri looks when he does it. Yuuri gets this passionate about Victor’s grandfather doing terrible things, but this? This is… a bit much. “It was just a book, at least? I was upset, but it didn’t hurt me. Not— Not in a way that lasted, at least.”

“No.” Yuuri takes a step forward, crowding into Victor’s space. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s the first time in a long time that Yuuri being in his space doesn’t make him feel _good_. “Stories are how we learn. They’re how we cope. They’re _hope_.”

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have them anymore.” Victor frowns, taking a small step backward—as much as he dares.

“What?” Yuuri opens his mouth, but nothing else comes out; all he does is blink a few times.

“Hope hasn’t ever done anything good for me.” Victor says the words slow, cautious, unsure of if he should be telling the truth this time. “It’s an attachment to things that will be broken and torn apart in front of you.”

“Oh.” Yuuri’s shoulders fall. “I’m sorry, I— I can’t believe I didn’t think. I…” He looks down for a second before taking a deep breath and holding out his hands, palms up.

Victor isn’t exactly sure what Yuuri’s asking for, but he can never resist reaching out for him. He slides his hands into Yuuri’s, and Yuuri tangles their fingers together.

“Books are really important to my family. My mom’s mentor taught us to value knowledge because it was power, and to value stories because they teach hope. I don’t remember him, I was too young when he passed away, but my mom taught us what she learned from him, and…” He looks up and meets Victor’s eyes. “I know you’ve been through a _lot_ , but no one deserves to live without some sort of hope.”

“What do you hope for?” Victor whispers the question, as if just speaking the words will break whatever fragile things that Yuuri clings to.

Yuuri smiles a bit. “I hoped to meet you again when I was little. I hope that someday we get to live in a world where everyone we care about is safe. I hope that you…” Yuuri stares at Victor for a long moment before he shakes his head.

“I want you to have hope. I want you to have something to believe in.” Yuuri grips Victor’s hands tighter. “So please, believe in me. Have hope in me. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t break.”

“But…” But what? Victor wants to. He’s had tentative thoughts of hope about Yuuri for so long that they’re ingrained into Victor’s brain. And now there’s this newness to how he views Yuuri, this fondness that no other person has ever inspired in him.

Victor feels _want_ , but again, it’s different than before. He wants this world that Yuuri dreams of. He wants a soft ending to this story of his; he doesn’t want to end up like his childhood hope, discarded and burnt to ashes.

He wants to have faith in Yuuri, just like he’s placed his faith in Victor.

“Okay,” Victor breathes, trying desperately to hide how his voice trembles.

Yuuri’s smile blooms across his face like a flower at the first touch of dawn’s sun, a slight blush forming across his cheeks. “Good. What do you say we get some rest? I think we’ll spend a bit of time hunting tomorrow.”

Victor perks up a bit. “Hunting?”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know what hunting is?”

Victor levels a look at him. “Of course I know. But aren’t we headed somewhere? Is there time?”

“I’m already late.” Yuuri shrugs. “I need to get back, but this will help us have enough food to get there.”

Victor’s shoulders tense. “But I— What if I don’t catch anything? What if I track it wrong, or scare it away?”

“Then I’m here to help or catch it for you.” Yuuri smiles. “Unless you don’t want to help me out?”

If it were Victor’s grandfather, that question would be a demand. He can almost hear those words in his voice, malice dripping from every syllable and making Victor’s muscles tense, his stomach clenching as he prepares to numb himself, to do something that will kill the remaining, barely-living parts of him.

But this isn’t Victor’s grandfather.

This is _not_ Mikhail.

This is Yuuri.

And there’s a teasing edge to Yuuri’s words, obvious in how he holds himself and the lilting of his voice. Not like he’s preparing a punishment for Victor’s response, or he’s laying a trap for any of Victor’s protests.

Yuuri’s said to him multiple times that Victor can say no.

And… it seems like he means it?

But Victor doesn’t really _want_ to say no.

“I’d love to.”

Yuuri’s smile only gets bigger, and doesn’t even fade a little as they eat their meager dinner that night and then tuck into their sleeping bag.

As he holds Yuuri tight, basking in his happiness and the fact that Yuuri _trusts_ him enough to do this, he doesn’t regret his choice one bit.

The next day, however, is a different story.

Everything seems so easy when Yuuri’s pointing out the signs and the tracks, but now that Yuuri hangs back and lets Victor take the lead, he realizes how little he actually knows.

Yuuri is helpful, of course. He doesn’t just let Victor flounder—in fact, he hovers and helps maybe a little _too_ much. But Victor’s stumped so often that he can’t even ask Yuuri to stop. By the time that it’s nearly noon, Victor’s ready to just give up and let Yuuri take the lead—

And then he finds a freshly broken branch of a weed-like growth, catching the scuffle of claws on the dusty earth.

Victor grins at Yuuri, and Yuuri smiles back with his eyes crinkled a bit, nodding.

It’s almost easy from there. Victor knows how to move quietly already; stealth isn’t something foreign to him. What’s strange to know is that there won’t be another human at the end of thi, but a creature. Maybe something normal, maybe something stranger than Victor could imagine.

He can start to see why Yuuri’s so upset about preserving knowledge and books—what’s even out here in this wilderness? What’s gone extinct since the end of the old world? What’s changed, and what’s survived and thrived?

Victor turns to ask Yuuri if he knows and maybe has cataloged what he’s found and if Victor might take a look—but Yuuri grabs his shoulder, leaning in beside him.

“It’s close,” Yuuri breathes, voice so quiet that even Victor has a hard time hearing him. “Be careful, those claws marks look like they’re—”

There’s a rustle in the bushes behind them.

Both of them turn and reach for their weapons, the air instantly crackling with electricity.

But it’s not quick enough.

Something with dark fur and blacks eyes and a mouth wide open and displaying a full set of sharp, white teeth leaps at them—

At Yuuri.

Victor pushes Yuuri aside before a coherent thought runs through his mind. Yuuri makes a desperate sort of sound as he tries and fails to find his balance.

Yuuri falls out of the way.

Leaving Victor directly in the creature’s path.

As the claws collide with and dig into his chest and as those teeth come closer and closer to his face, all Victor can feel is relief.

Yuuri will live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not ask me about geography, all I know is that they are going from point A to point B, maybe this isn’t even our planet I KNOW NOTHING EXCEPT VICTOR AND YUURI ARE SOULMATES SEND TWEET
> 
> Also! Look at this lovely, lovely art of Victor from when he's first injured ahhhhh!!!! On [Twitter](https://twitter.com/glasmurmeln_art/status/1349637509626650624) and [Tumblr](https://twitter.com/glasmurmeln_art/status/1349637509626650624)!!! <3
> 
> Okay! This is the end of my four-day posting spree, now time to go and pass out. XD Thank you all so, so much for reading!!! <3 <3 <3 (And I'm _slightly_ sorry for the cliffhanger, but you'll see why only slightly next week. ;D)


	16. Chapter 16

Victor hits the ground so hard that all of the air is forced from his lungs, and the world spins out of focus. Claws dig into the skin of his chest, hot breath pants into his face.

Yuuri screams something, but Victor can’t make out what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter, though. His tone makes it clear what’s on his mind.

Panic, frustration, fear.

There’s a brief moment where everything seems to go silent, and Victor _regrets_. Not that he pushed Yuuri out of the way, of course. Yuuri has friends and family that would miss him. He has a cause to fight for. Victor wouldn’t want to go on without him.

But because Victor’s already caused enough pain and frustration in Yuuri’s life. He doesn’t _want_ to cause any more.

It’s too late though. Victor tries to push the beast off but it won’t budge. He’s too weak from recovering to knock it off directly. Slobber drips all over Victor’s face before it takes a lick, tasting him.

For an absurd moment, Victor wonders if he tastes delicious or noxious from their days of traveling under the sun.

Then the creature’s mouth descends and it… licks him again and again?

Victor gasps in air, trying to figure out up from down, and what the _hell is happening_? Are there creatures that have poisonous saliva? Yuuri hasn’t mentioned any, but there are so many sorts of beasts that Victor thinks he knows, then he learns about how the end of the old world may have changed them, and once he thinks he got them all, Yuuri brings up even _more_.

A weight falls on him, knocking his breath out of him _again_ —but the licking stops. He opens his eyes and—

Oh.

It’s a _dog_.

It’s brown beneath the filth matted into its fur, and its eyes are big and round and black. It’s a big pup, covering Victor’s torso, and he can feel its tail wagging across his legs.

Mostly only nobility have dogs nowadays, but some people in the dark district will keep them. It’s not illegal, but it’s incredibly hard to afford to feed them—but people will do anything for their pets. Victor’s only ever known kindness from the creatures. He used to carry treats for them hidden in his pockets, sneaking them to any canines he stumbled across in either district.

Of course his grandfather managed to hear a rumor about Victor’s fondness for dogs and he put an end to Victor’s fascination like he always did; with cruel authority and punishment.

Victor always wanted to ask for a dog, but his grandfather said it was beneath them. The people that they rule are their dogs, and they should never have to settle for anything lesser as their servants. Dogs are not of any importance, they’re just another tool. Victor could have trained a dog to come on his missions with him, trained the poor thing to murder and fight just like Victor was trained, but he refused to put such a loving soul through anything like that. So he daydreamed, and he greeted every dog he ever met with as much kindness and love as he could manage without his grandfather hearing about it.

Victor can’t help but wish he had a treat on him now. As he reaches up and digs his fingers into the dog’s fur, he can feel the poor thing’s ribs.

And then there’s a crackling in the air, all of Victor’s hair standing on end. It’s familiar. Victor knows exactly what it is.

_No_.

Victor wraps his arms fully around the dog and rolls just in time to feel the static shock of a lightning bolt snapping at the ground and scorching it where Victor and his pup just were. He curls himself around the dog, holding the thin creature as tight as he dares while it whines softly and shakes.

It’s strange, but Victor feels a sort of kinship with it. He knows it’s ridiculous, but this poor thing has been abandoned, left to the wastes to starve and to be in pain. Victor can only imagine what it’s suffered through.

And he won’t let it hurt any more.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Yuuri’s voice is so sharp, so much harsher than Victor’s ever heard it, that he freezes, his breath catching in his lungs.

Until the dog wiggles a bit in his arms and licks his face, and Victor can’t help but smile a little at the gesture.

“ _Vitya_.” Yuuri’s voice cracks over Victor’s name and Victor understands—if he’d just watched Yuuri get tackled by a canine, he would be losing his mind with worry.

Victor rolls over and sits up, keeping the dog close to him as he does so, leaving as few openings as he can for Yuuri to strike. He meets Yuuri’s eyes and sucks in a breath, his voice trembling a bit as he says, “It’s a _dog_.”

Yuuri stares at them as he stands there with both katanas, breathing heavily. But eventually, his shoulders relax bit by bit before he sighs, his katana lowering slightly. “It could have killed you. What were you thinking, pushing me away like that?”

Victor sits up a bit straighter, bracing himself. “It could have killed _you_.”

“I was almost ready for it! I could have sliced it in half if you’d given me a half of a second longer,” Yuuri growls.

Victor tenses, sucking in a breath. He could have— he _would_ have killed this dog if Victor didn’t intervene. And he’s known this dog for minutes, at most. This shouldn’t turn his stomach.

But it _does_.

He feels like vomiting just thinking about the sight of this beautiful pup, flayed in half—

There’s another lick on Victor’s chin, and Victor glances down to look the dog over, to really take it—no, _her_ —in. She’s panting up at him, tongue lolled out of her mouth, as happy as can be even though she starved and almost died at least two times in the past few minutes.

Which really begs the question: how on earth did she survive out here at all?

“She looks like Vicchan did, but a _lot_ bigger,” Yuuri murmurs softly.

By the time that Victor looks up, something has softened in Yuuri’s face, his eyes back to warm and welcoming as a small, unconscious sort of smile spreads across his face.

“Vicchan?” Victor dares ask.

Yuuri’s smile spreads wider as he looks up from the dog and meets Victor’s eyes. “When my mom had my sister, she thought that she would have no son to name after her mentor because she hadn’t planned on having me. So she named our dog Victor—Vicchan was her nickname. Though… I used to pretend it was your name when I was little.”

A small flush spreads across the bridge of Victor’s nose and brushes along his cheekbones, but he purposefully ignores it. “Do you still have her?”

Yuuri shakes his head, his eyes sliding toward the ground. “She passed away a few years back. She was very old, and very loved.”

Victor opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s not really sure how best to comfort Yuuri; no one’s ever comforted him when he lost friend after friend and endured punishment after punishment. But he has to try. For Yuuri.

A forced smile spreads across his face before he can think about it. “Well, at least now we have Makkachin.”

“We— What?” Yuuri blinks. “ _Makkachin_?”

Victor’s flush deepens, his face going hot—god, he hasn’t thought about that in _ages_ , and he’s such a childish _idiot._ He splutters for a moment, trying to find an explanation that doesn’t paint him as a fool, but comes up blank. So he does the only thing he can think to do.

Victor opens his arms and releases the dog, Makkachin. She leaps forward, impossibly fast for a pup that looks half-starved, flying at Yuuri.

All Yuuri manages is a squeaking sort of scream before he’s tackled just like Victor was, his voice cutting off as he hits the ground and Makkachin settles on top of him, beginning to lick his face.

And then Yuuri begins to giggle before it finally turns into a laugh, so innocent and lighthearted that it makes something in Victor brighter, happier.It’s not long before Yuuri has to drop his katanas and begin flailing. “S-stop! That t-t-tickles!”

Victor feels light just watching the two of them, Yuuri trying and failing to get a grip on the dog for a few minutes before he struggles upright, smile huge, face flushed, and Victor’s heart feels as if it’s too small to contain this feeling—this _love_ —for this man. It’s unfair to feel so much for the first time in he can’t even _remember_ how long and not even know what to do with it.

The obvious answer seems to be to _tell_ Yuuri, but just the thought of it has his breathing pick up. Yuuri might reject him. Has _every reason_ to. He would have to be stupid to trust Victor this quickly, and Yuuri’s not stupid.

Besides, Victor doesn’t want anything to change. If anything, he just wants to see Yuuri smile more. He wants Yuuri to be as happy as he possibly can be.

“Makkachin, huh?” Yuuri says as he takes her face between his hands and starts massaging her ears. “She doesn’t seem to have fleas or mange, at least. Her gums and teeth are okay… Someone took care of her well, poor girl.”

Victor’s heart _aches_. She seems sweet, and Yuuri’s probably right in that someone raised her well, and lovingly. So either that someone couldn’t take care of her anymore, or that person is dead and gone. And Victor gets that she probably doesn’t understand what happened, maybe she doesn’t even feel grief, but it’s not fair.

A lot of this isn’t fair.

“Vitya…” Yuuri says his name slowly, cautiously, and it sets Victor on edge more than Yuuri yelling the name. “We can’t.”

Victor blinks, trying to understand what Yuuri’s talking about. “Can’t what?”

“Take her.” Yuuri stares into her dark, soulful eyes with a sad sort of smile, and Victor’s stomach drops. “We don’t have enough food or resources. She’ll just starve along the way until she collapses.”

“And what do you think will happen to her _here_?” Victor snaps, leaning forward to get onto his feet—

Until his words catch up with him, and he shrinks back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry. I know, I’m a spoiled noble. I don’t know best. I just…”

Yuuri’s eyes flicker over to Victor, but they don’t stay there long. “Why that name? Why Makkachin?”

Victor ducks his head down, but it’s not in avoidance. Not after he just snapped at Yuuri over nothing, and Yuuri’s so gracefully glossing over it for him. No, it’s there to hide how his blush has returned. “That fairytale book I told you about? There was a prince in it, one that actually did good for his country, and he had a dog named Makkachin. It’s silly, I’m sorry.”

Yuuri spends another second stroking the dog, not looking at Victor this time before speaking. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, they fell under a curse.” Victor shrugs; so it goes in a fairytale. “The prince was far too good, so his uncle got jealous, murdered the prince’s parents, and made the prince fall asleep, intending to murder him while he was helpless. But Makkachin protected him, letting no one close to him. At least until a kindly witch snuck in, intending to try and heal him. The witch’s courage and fearlessness made Makkachin trust them, and the healing touch of his truest soulmate instantly woke up the prince.”

“And they lived happily ever after?” Yuuri’s looking at Victor again finally, face oddly blank.

Victor nods, then laughs. “I used to think I would grow up to be like that prince, rescued from my prison because I deserved it. But I wasn’t a good person. I deserved what I got.”

Makkachin turns away from Yuuri, butting her head into Victor’s chest until he gives in and pets her, taking a moment to breathe in the warm air, feeling Makkachin’s soft fur between his fingertips. She’s a little smelly, probably just like he is, but the smell is comforting. _Dog_ is such a distinct, musky scent that is one of the few things that Victor only has good memories of.

“You didn’t deserve that.” Yuuri’s voice is soft, even as his hands clench into fists. “No one deserves that—except Mikhail himself, after what he’s done. I know he’s not acting alone in that disgusting empire that he’s created, but after hearing what he’s done to you, I—” Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

Victor keeps running his hands through Makka’s fur, shifting a little bit as something uncomfortable and squirming settles into his stomach.

Yuuri _loathes_ Victor’s grandfather—anyone in any rebellion does. Which begs the question of how Yuuri can even stand to look at Victor.

Of course Yuuri remembers what Victor’s said. Of course he’s seen how Yuuri looks at him and it is _never_ filled with hate. Exasperation and irritation sometimes, but rarely directed toward Victor.

But Victor knows that he shares features with his grandfather. Pale eyes, pale hair, pale skin—though Victor’s so tan right now that he has _freckles_ , which he never even knew he _had_ before. Beyond that, though, they share their cheekbones, and some of their expressions. Victor knows that he’s picked up mannerisms because it’s made him physically ill when he’s noticed what he’s absorbed. He’s been compliant in the horrors that his grandfather’s committed.

It might only be a matter of time before Yuuri thinks that of Victor, too. Part of him thinks it would be better if he just didn’t feel anything for Yuuri in the first place, but he doesn’t regret that. Even if it hurts when Yuuri realizes exactly who Victor is.

Makkachin shifts away from Victor before she throws herself onto her back, exposing her belly. A laugh startles out of Victor as he reaches out to scratch her, her leg instantly shaking as he digs his fingers into the fur on her chest.

Yuuri lets out a long breath, letting his hands relax. “I wish you still had that fairytale book.”

Victor frowns. “Why, so you could read it? It’s silly. It was just a book for kids.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It was important to you. Enough that you’re still thinking about it to this day. I wish that story was yours—to own, and to live.”

“No one has a story like that,” Victor says, almost a knee-jerk reaction at this point. “Besides, I’m not a good person. I’m not sure any prince in a tale like that would be as weak and make such terrible choices as I have.”

“You never had a _choice_.” Yuuri lets out a breath. “And I’m taking that from you again, aren’t I? I just— For a moment I had wished that you didn’t push me aside because I can’t— Not a _dog_ — But we need the supplies…”

Victor swallows, glancing down at Makkachin’s face, tongue lolling out as she pants happily. He gets what Yuuri means, but he couldn’t have done it knowing what he knows now. And he has to wonder if Yuuri would have been able to do anything, considering he said Makka looks like his old dog.

“What do you want to do?” Yuuri keeps his eyes focused on Victor, not looking away, or acting like he’s teasing Victor despite how ridiculous that question is.

“I don’t know anything,” Victor murmurs as he scratches Makkachin’s belly and her tail lazily wags back and forth. “My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. You and I are doing this together. I told you that you’re your own person. You aren’t Mikhail, and you aren’t me.” Yuuri’s words are so firm, so sure, that Victor almost believes them. “If we bring her along, we’re going to have to cut our rations to feed her. We’re going to have to make sure she’s trained to help herself and us survive out here—though if her weight means anything, she’s probably well-trained. We can always find other resources. Our other two choices are to walk away and leave her here, try to get her to not follow us, or…”

Or the unspeakable.

Victor swallows, his eyes burning as he looks down at her.

She isn’t the dog in his storybook. She isn’t Victor’s. She deserves better than this cruel and deadly world.

They can’t hurt her.

“She can have all of my portions.” Victor nods, looking up at Yuuri. “So you don’t have to sacrifice anything.”

Yuuri scoffs softly. “Starvation isn’t easy.”

“I know.” Victor takes a moment, clenching his jaw. “I’ve gone without food before.”

“Oh, I— Yeah. I guess you have.” Yuuri sighs. “Starvation while hiking through the wastes isn’t smart. If I need you, you won’t be able to help me. We should split.”

Victor opens his mouth to protest again—but what Yuuri says makes sense. And he’s not even arguing it. He’s not trying to change Victor’s mind. “This means she can come?”

A smile spreads across Yuuri’s face. “Yeah. Makkachin is ours now.”

And Victor can’t help but jump to his feet and leap at Yuuri, tackling him for the second time today and giving him a shaking, tight hug. “ _Thank you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me@Me: Do not write the fairy tale as a Victuuri AU dO NOT WRITE THE FAIRY TALE AS A VICTUURI AU— Dammit
> 
> Also no, that wasn’t based off of any actual fairytale, and I’m as clueless as everyone else as to where Makka’s name came from.
> 
> (And in case anyone’s worried, Makkachin is safe. Killing pets is a serious no-go for me)
> 
> As always, thank you for being amazing and sticking with this fic <3 <3 <3


	17. Chapter 17

Makkachin is a miracle.

Victor wants to say she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, but that would be a lie—that honor goes to Yuuri and Yuuri alone, for more reasons than he can even articulate.

But that doesn’t erase Makka coming in close second.

She’s incredibly responsive to their commands, coming when asked to, stopping when ordered. She never strays too far from them, always staying within sight while on constant alert—even sighting things that Yuuri doesn’t catch.

And above all of that, she’s _loving_. She checks in with both Victor and Yuuri regularly just to say hello and get a pet. She always seems to know when Victor’s getting a little too lost in his own head when she makes those visits, sometimes giving a soft boof to snap him out of it when the noise in his mind is too loud. Yuuri seems to need it just as much by the way his shoulders fall and uncoil when Makka checks on him—and that’s very odd, isn’t it? Yuuri’s clearly adept at navigating the wastes, and he can’t be worried about coming home when he’s The Fox, can he?

Well, Victor’s the best fighter that he’s aware of—with Yuuri being the exception—and _he’s_ terrified at just the thought of going home. Makka’s at his side instantly when the idea hits him, and he can’t help but be grateful to dig his fingers into her fur.

Victor doesn’t want that fear for Yuuri. Even the thought of Yuuri having to deal with being his grandfather’s wrath is more horrifying than Victor himself going home. If his grandfather even so much as laid a hand on Yuuri, Victor would—

What would he do? He’s too much of a coward to kill his grandfather. He’s gone beyond proving that, and it’s something that eats away at him from the inside out. If Victor had been brave enough, he and Yuuri wouldn’t have to run from anything. If he hadn’t been such a _coward_ , Chris would—

A strangled noise crawls up Victor’s throat. God, how many people would be alive if Victor weren’t who he was? He could have made it so Yuuri never even _had_ to risk his life for any rebellion long ago. He could have let Chris get married, have a _family_ —

Whining.

Victor blinks, and his eyes focus on brown. Makka’s fur. She’s not butted up against him like she normally is this time, which is odd enough. But she’s being illuminated by something bright and flashing, something like… lightning.

Victor sucks in a breath and clenches his hands into fists, fighting back the static energy that’s building inside of him and threatening to snap out. But his heart is racing, and it’s all that Victor can do to focus on keeping himself from just _letting it out_ , zapping everything in sight. Which is practically a natural disaster with all of the pent-up energy trapped and sparking inside of him.

The last time Victor lost control he was a _teenager_. He’s _better than this_. The one thing in his life that he was _better_ at, that he had more control in than anyone else, was using his body as a weapon, honing himself, his magic, and his blades sharper than any sword had the right to be. He has control. Ever since he mastered magic better than anyone who could have taught him, he’s _always had control_.

“Vitya.”

The voice is calm. Calmer than any voice has the right to be while Victor feels like this. When he was younger, when he was training, he was less powerful. He had more of his energy buried, grounded, instead of being the livewire that he’s become. But he’s only ever had to consider himself a threat to the enemies that his grandfather assigns him to, never to innocent bystanders. Never to people that Victor actually allowed himself to care about.

Maybe Victor can’t blame his grandfather for taking everything precious to him. Maybe he’s so _weak_ , such a _coward_ , that he was going to destroy everything close to himself anyway. Maybe finding Makkachin wasn’t a blessing; maybe anyone else finding her would’ve been better. Maybe she won’t even make it a full day with them. And on top of that, someone so precious to Victor that the idea of hurting him makes Victor cry out, the lightning snapping and crackling and burning along his views. He _can’t_ , he can’t hurt—

“ _Victor_.” It’s less the voice that breaks through to Victor than it is the touch.

Humans are conductors of electricity. Everyone’s energy operates at a different strength, a different frequency, so that it isn’t just absorbed by the other person’s body when they’re attacked. No one and nothing should be able to touch Victor while he’s like this.

But a hand wraps around Victor’s own, tight and warm and present. It doesn’t pull away as the lightning sparking from Victor’s arm wraps around them. In fact, Victor’s hand is lifted until his palm is pressed against a chest, a heartbeat firm and steady beneath the panicked static of the lightning seeping through Victor’s pores.

“Victor, breathe.” Yuuri’s voice shakes a little, making something in Victor’s chest crack. “Breathe with me.”

There’s no hesitation in Victor to follow Yuuri’s lead as he feels the chest beneath his palm expand. It’s a relief, in a way, to hand control over to someone else. He would have thought he’d hate it after living with his grandfather—in all honesty, he probably _should_ hate it. He should pull away and control this himself.

But on the other hand, he’s entrusted himself to Yuuri, to a man who should have no reason to let him continue breathing. But instead of torturing him, or killing him, or tying him up and dragging him home, Yuuri’s given him nothing but respect. Instead of taking his life away from him, Yuuri’s given Victor life in a way that he’s never been able to have it before. Yuuri’s given him _so much_ that had been out of Victor’s life for so long, he’d thought it was impossible. Yuuri _cares_ about Victor in a way that breaks him, that destroys all the defenses he’s built up for years and years.

And as terrifying and earth-shattering as that is, Victor can’t help but hope to have more of that with Yuuri. Because Yuuri’s given him something more magical than any lightning, more firm and grounded than any final order from Victor’s grandfather.

Yuuri’s given him life, yes, but he’s also opened the door for Victor to find something so unthinkable, he still doesn’t entirely understand it:

Love.

Victor wants to trust in that, even though he knows it’s reckless and silly. But in Yuuri’s care, it’s almost like Victor isn’t Victor Nikiforov. He can’t erase the past or the things he’s done; he knows better. But in those warm, brown eyes, Victor doesn’t see fear and hatred. Only warmth. Only something so unusual that he feels almost fresh and new and unbroken by the world to have it directed at him. He hasn’t done a thing to earn it, but in the meantime he wants to give Yuuri everything that he never even had the choice to give someone before. He _wants_ to earn it.

And trusting Yuuri? Well, it’s becoming easier than breathing.

“There.” Yuuri whispers the word, like he’s almost afraid to say it out loud.

Victor blinks. Oh. He’d gotten so wrapped up in the feeling of Yuuri that he hadn’t noticed the chaotic energy in him calming to a steady simmer. Not as calm as it’s been for years, almost dead until he needs to call on it, but no lightning sparks from his fingers or burns through his veins.

Questions bubble up in Victor’s mind, but all pop once he sees the relieved smile stretching across Yuuri’s lips. He can’t help but echo it, and only manages to murmur the one word that remains in his mind: “How?”

“Oh!” Yuuri begins to pull his hand from Victor’s wrist, but before he can think, Victor reaches out and winds their fingers together, letting himself crave that contact—even when he hesitates, uncertain after he does it. But the way the smile grows across Yuuri’s face settles every uncertainty Victor has. “Well, um. It’s kind of a long story, but my dad figured out a way to soothe magical upset because— No, the why doesn’t matter. But my mom perfected it with me, and I learned how to do it too by being, um… exposed. I sync up my energy to yours by getting a sense of it in the air. It’s easy with little incidents like this, but it’s impossible with the sheer amount of energy in a battle. And I’m rambling now, sorry.”

“No!” The word bursts from Victor’s mouth with more emotion than he means, and he regrets it instantly as Yuuri flinches slightly. “No, it’s fascinating—I never would have thought it was possible. When I used to lose control when I was training, they used to…” Victor swallows, wincing away from the memory. “Well, it wasn’t as kind.”

Yuuri’s smile fades. “I can imagine.”

Victor clears his throat, wishing he could go back a minute ago and stop himself from sticking his foot into his mouth. “But I don’t understand. I was much more… _distressed_ while I had my fever. And I’ve never— I have _perfect_ control. Always.”

Yuuri looks down for a moment, almost seeming to stare at their hands where they link together. “Sometimes… things aren’t always straightforward. I think you didn’t even have the energy to conjure up so much as a spark while you were feverish, and now…” He bites his lip, and that does _something_ to Victor, his stomach flipping in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. “I don’t think you’re losing control. You’re getting some control back.”

Victor frowns. “No. That doesn’t make any sense, I’m perfect at—”

Something pushes against Victor’s leg _hard_ , almost pulling him and Yuuri apart—but not quite.

Yuuri laughs, the heaviness leaving his expression as quickly as it came. “Don’t worry, Makka, we didn’t forget about you.”

She gives a soft boof, like she’s retorting that they _did_ forget about her for a whole few minutes and that was far too long.

Victor can’t help but let out a laugh himself as he bends down to scratch at her ear, her whole body leaning into his touch.

He almost hurt her because he let himself get too worked up and emotional. And if she hadn’t made it, if he managed to—

No. He just thought about how much he values having Yuuri being someone that he can trust, and now it’s his turn to be that for others. He’s not exactly sure how; he’s never had anyone give that level of responsibility to him. But he can be better than this. He _had_ been better than this up until now. He has no excuse to be this weak and fragile.

He has to be strong. If not for himself, and definitely not for his grandfather, he wants to do it for them.

“We’ll keep going now, don’t worry.” Victor smiles down at Makkachin as her tongue lolls out.

“No, let’s stop for the night. Hey, no arguments.” Yuuri frowns as Victor instantly opens his mouth to protest. “We’re getting close, only a few days travel left. Besides, I’m a little tired and hungry anyway.”

Victor frowns but he doesn’t protest, not when Yuuri says he needs a rest. Even if Victor suspects it’s more for him than for Yuuri. He _is_ a little tired, though.

Expending lighting energy drains the body—it’s why the lightning mills are so taxing on people, and why so many in the dark district die young. Victor’s used to pushing through exhaustion, but he knows how messy his work gets when he’s tired. He should rest, for his own sake and for the sakes of Yuuri and Makka.

Even if he doesn’t want to.

Makka, however, is _thrilled_ when they start to set up camp. She doesn’t make much noise aside from soft boofs and the prancing of her paws on the dirt and rocks as she dances around them almost as if in celebration, so she won’t be drawing any predators toward them. In fact, she goes so far as to find twigs and sticks for their fire, making Yuuri laugh and praise her every time she drops one on the pile.

She was well trained and probably well taken care of.

It breaks something inside Victor’s chest whenever that realization hits home. She was _so_ loved. And though that’s something that Victor can’t relate to, he does know what it’s like to have the people that are supposed to care for you disappear from your life, leaving only violence and starvation of all kinds in its wake.

What does she even understand of what happened to her? Was she left? Was she lost? Did she flee and manage to be the only survivor of some sort of attack?

The latter doesn’t sound like her, though. That’s far closer to Victor’s level of cowardice.

Whatever she remembers doesn’t seem to bother her as she scarfs down the food they can afford to give her and then begs for morsels of their meals.

They both give in, of course.

There’s a moment of awkward hesitation as both Yuuri and Victor climb into their sleeping bag. Makka’s obviously been living out in the wilderness with no heat source, but will she be okay out in the open like this? They hesitate and stare at her as they discuss.

At least until Makka takes things into her own hands.

Victor lets out a sigh, and Makka must take that as a sign because she leaps forward and somehow manages to tunnel between the two of them.

It’s a tight fit, and it takes Victor way too long to stop giggling at the shocked look on Yuuri’s face, but they settle in and it’s warm. It’s _right_.

Every day seems to pass smoother and smoother with the three of them working together. Yuuri teaches Makka some of the commands that his old dog used to know, along with passing on whatever knowledge he can to Victor. Yuuri seems tired; the bags under his eyes seem to grow by the hour, and they stop for more breaks than they ever have before. Victor says they can stop taking so many breaks, that they can just focus on pushing forward, but Yuuri says he’s fine and he’d rather make sure that Victor and Makka are safe.

And really, when has Yuuri been wrong so far?

They do work well as a team, at least. Maybe it’s all in Victor’s head, but it feels like there’s something right in how they operate together, moving and reacting as a unit even though they’re tired and weary from spending a long time traveling with too few resources.

At least the landscape changes the farther they go, the rocks and rubble falling away for more vegetation to tear up through the dry ground and reach toward the harsh sun. There’s more wildlife, too—but it’s as gangly and barren as the foliage, barely worth taking the time to hunt.

Victor’s still a little proud when he catches his first rabbit, though, and Yuuri hugs him so tight that it almost hurts. Not that Victor doesn’t hold him just as tightly, and probably clings for a little too long.

Yuuri doesn’t pull away until Victor does first, though.

And Victor really shouldn’t focus on that. He should focus on the fact that they’re apparently getting closer to Agape’s hideout, that he needs to prepare for the absolute worst.

But instead, his mind keeps wandering to Yuuri. How miraculous it is that he doesn’t hate Victor. How beautiful and wonderful it is when he touches Victor, always so gentle, always so thoughtful. How he can’t imagine what his life would be like without Yuuri.

Makka seems to like Victor’s mood far better when he’s lost in these light daydreams more than when he gets tangled in his darker thoughts. Instead of having to push him from his own mind, she jumps around and plays with branches and chases after birds—never wandering too far though. She spends more and more time next to Yuuri as they go along, his hand often buried in her fur, almost like she’s holding him up.

And though Victor would never take his decision back, it’s good to see that Yuuri seems to need Makka with them as much as Victor does—that _neither_ of them regrets bringing her along with them.

They make a good team, the three of them. A great team, even. Victor _knows_ he doesn’t have a future with any sort of freedom ahead of him. The fact that Yuuri trusts him this much is unreal, and to expect this treatment from any other member of a rebellion that’s actively aimed for his death is ridiculous. After Yuuri, maybe it won’t be as bad as he thought, but…

But he should probably ask Yuuri about what happens next. After all, it’s probably better than the worst thing that he’s expecting—

Unless it _isn’t_.

He can’t believe that Yuuri would allow the worst to happen to him, though. There wouldn’t have been a reason to lie to Victor to this degree, to make him feel so… so _valued_ if there wasn’t some truth to it.

Right?

No. _No_. Victor needs to stop thinking. Yuuri’s right there in front of him as they walk through the golden light of sunset, his hand on Makka’s head, the same Yuuri as he’s always been.

And that’s the point.

This is Yuuri.

Victor trusts Yuuri.

On some level that makes little sense to him, he _loves_ Yuuri.

So Victor takes a breath, preparing to ask before he can think any more about it—

And Yuuri collapses into a heap, unmoving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Don't murder me? :'D
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much for reading and sticking with this fic! I'M SORRY ( ´•̥_⁾⁾⁾)


	18. Chapter 18

“Yuuri?”

Victor can’t move. He can’t feel. All he can do is watch as Makkachin sniffs at and nudges Yuuri while whining softly. This can’t be happening—not to Yuuri. Victor’s the one who’s had the infection. Victor’s the one who’s always been weaker in spirit, and probably in mind. Yuuri’s strong, _so_ strong. He’s held Victor together this entire time; without him, Victor’s— He’s—

He’s a coward and a failure just like he always has been.

He has nowhere to go, nothing to do, other than die. There’s only the hope of some sort of future in the promises that Yuuri’s made Victor.

But none of that matters if Yuuri’s dead.

None of it matters if Victor’s too much of a coward to move, to help, to—

A sharp _bark_ rings through the air, sharper than any noise that Makka’s ever made before.

Victor blinks and looks down at Makka, at the way those black eyes stare right back up at him, waiting. Expecting.

Right.

Victor can’t freeze up. He can’t panic. He can’t think about Yuuri laying there not breathing and—

Makka whines, ears pinned back against her head even as her tail wags a little, almost with urgency.

“Right,” Victor repeats out loud, his muscles finally responding to him as he scrambles forward with Makkachin at his side.

Yuuri’s glasses are skewed on his face, and Victor can’t help but delicately take them off with shaking hands before doing anything else—but he can’t put off the inevitable. There are no obvious wounds on him, nothing to say that he—he’s not here any longer, but Victor can’t help the way his insides twist and cramp as he reaches toward Yuuri’s neck and feels for a pulse.

A moment of quiet passes, just Makka’s panting and Victor’s harsh breathing as the dim light of the sunset washes over them.

There.

Yuuri’s chest rises, and there’s the faint beat of his heart.

“Yuuri?” Victor whispers, even though he knows better than to hope for a response.

Why would Yuuri pass out like this? He didn’t show signs of any underlying issue, and he didn’t mention anything to Victor. He’d be a terrible fighter if he just fainted randomly. They’ve been drinking plenty of water, thanks to Yuuri and his tablets that clean it. And Victor’s _seen_ him eat—

Wait.

He’s seen food on Yuuri’s plate every time they eat, yes. But Victor’s accused him of having smaller portions before, even if Yuuri tries to play it off that it’s just the angle. And he’s very, _very_ generous in giving Makka scraps— _that_ Victor never brought up because he knows he’s just as bad as Yuuri is.

But he should have, apparently.

Makkachin’s starving and needs a better diet the moment that they can give her one, but they have to be able to _get_ someplace together for that to happen. And Victor knows that a few days with less food won’t do this to someone; he’s personally lived through it. How long has Yuuri been doing this? Sacrificing his own health for a creature like _Victor_?

Victor reaches up toward Yuuri’s face, dirty and travel-worn but as peaceful as if he were only asleep. He gently brushes Yuuri’s hair from his face as his lips tremble. “I-I don’t know how to do this without you.” His voice breaks and Victor sniffs a little, but he doesn’t cry.

He never does.

Even though he wants to. Because Yuuri deserves it. He deserves _better_ than Victor.

But Victor’s all that he has.

And Victor _cannot_ let him down.

Victor’s done so much that he regrets that he couldn’t put a number to the crimes he’s committed against his better judgment. Every choice he’s ever made for himself, without the influence of his grandfather, has ended in shame and regret and pain.

Victor doesn’t even remotely care if this ends badly for him. He knows that Yuuri has no way to communicate with Agape headquarters, that Victor coming there will be a surprise and without Yuuri to defend him, he’ll probably be killed.

But they won’t kill Yuuri.

Victor stands up. He’ll have to rearrange his things so that he can carry Yuuri on his back, but it should only be a day or two longer until they reach the hideout—Yuuri’s told him enough about how to navigate and landmarks that he _should_ be able to do it on his own.

With a deep breath, he takes a step forward—

And gets tugged back, a slight growl sounding behind him.

Victor blinks, turning back to find Makkachin attempting to tug something out of his pack.

The sleeping bag.

_Oh_. It’s almost _dark_. If they keep trying to move they’ll wind up freezing to death, probably.

God, Victor can’t even notice these basic, obvious things; what makes him think that he’s going to be able to take care of another human and navigate the wilderness long enough to be able to—

Victor shakes his head. Failure is _not_ an option. How was that mentality so easy for him back at The Hive, where he went through the motions of his actions but somehow never really felt them? How was he able to function and fight and follow orders for so long, but now he’s set free for the first time that he can even remember and he crumbles without someone to direct him?

He hates that his grandfather was right about everything. He hates that he’s never had the chance to just be himself and that he probably never will. He hates that he knows that he loves Yuuri with every inch of his being, but that there’s no point in Yuuri ever loving him back when he’s an empty husk of a human; a puppet covered in the bloody fingerprints of his grandfather.

But if he has one thought of his own, one strength; it’s the fact that he can and will do everything to get Yuuri through this. Yuuri sacrificed his supplies, his time, and his health to save _Victor_ of all people, based on a memory of someone whose spirit has long been extinguished. Victor won’t let someone so beautiful and wonderful die.

He _won’t_.

Victor sets up camp as quickly as he possibly can, tucking Yuuri into the sleeping bag while he tries _many_ times to start a fire before it finally catches. He attempts to make something to eat, and it’s okay—Makka eats it up at least. But he can’t feed Yuuri like this, can he?

Something crawls up Victor’s throat, threatening to choke him, but he sets it aside. He needs to think practically right now. He can give Yuuri water, at least, so for now that will do.

As Victor tilts Yuuri’s head up onto his lap, the chill of the night settling in quickly, the irony of their switched positions. But instead of Victor injured in Yuuri’s lap cradled by steady hands, it’s Victor holding Yuuri, afraid and confused with no idea how to help him

Victor tries not to think about it much as he tilts Yuuri’s head back and carefully drips water down his throat, but as he finishes up and sets the empty container aside, the thought is still there. It makes him pause for a moment, reaching down with his trembling fingers to run them through Yuuri’s much shorter hair, slowly working out any knots and tangles that are snagged in it. There’s a slight darkening of his skin on his temple where his head must have hit the ground.

Victor’s breathing hitches and then runs ragged as he gently brushes his fingers over Yuuri’s skin. He hopes that it doesn’t hurt—but he doesn’t even know if Yuuri can feel hurt right now. He wants to ask if Yuuri’s okay, if he feels pain, but he _can’t_. He wants to make it better. He wants to bring Yuuri to the best healer alive and use his power and status to demand that they make sure that Yuuri lives, but he can’t even do that.

“I’m sorry,” Victor croaks out to Yuuri, and then bites back his next words, even though the only one that would hear them would be Makkachin. It isn’t anything bad, either, not something that he would regret saying. But it’s ridiculous.

_I miss you_.

Even though Yuuri’s only been passed out for a little while; even though Yuuri’s here on Victor’s lap, beneath Victor’s fingertips.

Victor hasn’t given up already on saving Yuuri, but in a way this feels like the beginning of the end. Yuuri will make it through it if it’s the last thing that Victor does, but even if Victor survives, things won’t be the same.

Victor will be the enemy again.

He’s not sure when or how Yuuri started seeing him as something else, but he did. He cared for Victor enough to give him everything he had, and Victor… Victor likes to think he tried to do the same, even if he doesn’t know _how_ to care.

But there will be an entire rebellion there; Victor won’t be trusted. He’ll only be valued as much as he was before by his grandfather at _most_.

Victor might not see Yuuri again.

He might not _talk_ to Yuuri again.

He might not be able to say…

Say _what_ , exactly?

The thought jolts Victor back down to reality and the dark sky. He gently sets Yuuri back down, wrapped up in the sleeping bag, before he gets up and stokes the fire with some branches that Makka gathered, and cleans up the supplies that he somehow scattered in his messy, panicked state.

By the time he turns back toward Yuuri and the sleeping bag, Makka’s already tucked herself into bed on one side of Yuuri.

A broken sort of smile spreads across Victor’s face. She’s such a _good girl_ , their Makkachin. Victor forces his limbs to move, his joints feeling stiff and creaky as he manages to squeeze in on Yuuri’s other side.

It’s strange that Yuuri’s facing him and yet he can’t see Victor; he’s unaware of even being here with him. Victor wants to reach out and shake him, wake him up from this horrible nightmare. He wants to see Yuuri’s eyes flutter open, see the edges of his eyes crinkle as his eyes light up and he smiles. He wants to feel Yuuri snuggle in closer as he sleeps, seeking out warmth even though he’s as warm as an oven at night. There’s something about lying and simply sleeping with Yuuri that warms Victor through, heats him up in places he didn’t even realize were frigid.

Victor’s cold tonight. Even though there’s hardly any room in the sleeping bag, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, space that never existed before.

On some level, Victor’s aware that he should be thankful for it. He may have to give Yuuri up soon—maybe never see him again. He should get used to this. It’s not like he _needs_ it; he’s survived twenty-seven years without Yuuri’s touch, and his voice, and his laugh. He can survive the rest of his life without him. There’s nothing intrinsic to Victor in Yuuri, nothing that he needs to survive.

If anything, right now Yuuri’s more of a hassle to Victor, isn’t he? He’s collapsed from starvation, and even if he wakes up, he’ll be weak. He’ll be slow. He’ll be taking Victor to a place where they’ll want his head at the _very_ least, and there’s no reason to take mercy on the likes of Victor.

Victor mostly has the skills to survive on his own now. He wouldn’t even entirely be on his own—he has Makkachin. They could go anywhere. _Everywhere_. Victor knows on some level that the world outside The Hive is massive, incomprehensible in size and landmass. But it’s not something that he’s ever been able to truly wrap his mind around.

He could change that. He could travel. He could figure out who he truly is. The answer to that doesn’t lie with Yuuri, after all, even if it feels like Yuuri makes Victor more himself than he’s ever been in his life. He wants to stay here and safe with Yuuri forever, but he knows that won’t happen.

But if he leaves now, he leaves Yuuri. If he got up and started walking tomorrow, Yuuri wouldn’t make it. He could try and do his best to drop Yuuri off at the edge of Agape’s hideout if he’s careful, leave Yuuri and make sure someone found him. That way he would stay safe, and Victor would be free, actually _free,_ for the first time in his life.

Just the idea is like ash on his tongue. It’s the cremation of whatever little connection is fluttering to life between them, the fragile glint of confusing love that Victor’s taken hold of.

He knows it makes absolutely no sense. He knows that he’ll end up dead or worse. He knows that this is not the choice that his grandfather would have made for him.

And so far, Victor hasn’t truly regretted a decision he’s made in defiance of his grandfather. He regrets the consequences. He thinks about Chris more often than he should for someone he so rarely _actually_ talked to—but he was Victor’s only connection left. He was the only person that Victor knew for a fact he could trust with his life.

And now he has Yuuri, and he’s crept in and dug closer than anyone else ever has. And Victor likes it. He _craves_ it with the ache of something that’s only ever known starvation and has a hope of being full.

It’s not just that, either. Yuuri isn’t just a warm body that Victor appreciates having the gift of being able to cling to. He’s kind, so generous and caring. He gets frustrated with himself, and sometimes at Victor, but he never takes it out on him. He’s wickedly talented and whip-smart, thinking on his feet in an almost thoughtless, impulsive way, instincts so honed that it doesn’t even matter. He laughs at Victor’s dumb jokes; he listens to Victor’s ridiculous rambling that he’s been punished for more than once; he reaches out and takes Victor’s hand, weaving their fingers together and holding on so tight that sometimes Victor wonders if Yuuri’s afraid he’ll let go, as ridiculous as that idea is.

This isn’t someone that Victor can just walk away from and forget. He can’t walk away from even the smallest possibility that he could see those lovely brown eyes again, hear that stunning voice, be wrapped up in those sturdy arms.

He could hold Yuuri now. He knows he could. But his mind keeps jumping back to that time he’d tried to hug his grandfather without permission, the bruises that he wore for weeks.

It’s laughable to imagine Yuuri reacting in that same manner, but Victor’s stomach _churns_ at the idea of touching Yuuri without knowing it’s okay first. Yuuri’s always the one that pulls Victor closer, tighter. And he doesn’t ask Victor if it’s okay anymore; Victor hopes he knows that _yes_ , please, it’s always okay. But is it okay for Victor to initiate this sort of thing? He honestly doesn’t know.

It feels silly to be thinking so deeply about something that he does nearly every night. Obviously Yuuri wouldn’t initiate a hug if he didn’t want one, right? But how does Victor _know_? How do people do this sort of thing normally, when Victor can’t even grasp this simple problem? He’s seen families hug and kiss in greetings; he’s seen couples join hands and embrace with hardly any words between them. Maybe there’s something broken in Victor that he doesn’t get how to figure out these simple problems.

Maybe the fact that he’s an empty shell of a human, with little to no personality or will left. Maybe he doesn’t even know how to be human.

There’s a small whimper. At first Victor’s sure that it’s Makka, but then there’s movement right beside him, and his heart nearly stops.

Yuuri mumbles something softly, more of a gentle hum than anything.

A noise escapes Victor that’s much less delicate than what Yuuri muttered, something broken and garbled and keening. It’s such a small sign of life, of _Yuuri_ , but Victor aches to hear him talk again, to hear him speak and laugh and just—

He just wants Yuuri to be _Yuuri_ , not practically a corpse.

Something tugs at Victor’s arm, and the noise escaping him cuts off. But he can’t even question it because he knows that warmth and those fingers.

Victor crumples. He curls around Yuuri and holds him close. He doesn’t clutch as tightly as he wants to, not while Yuuri can’t tell him if it hurts. He cradles the back of Yuuri’s head with one hand, the other reaching around his back to draw him close. Victor tucks his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck and tries to match his breathing instead of the quick, ragged breaths that escape his mouth.

It doesn’t help much, though.

Instead, Victor squeezes his eyes shut as the words he bit back earlier crawl back up to the surface, truer and rawer than before. And he doesn’t care enough to hold them back anymore, damn the rawness and truth in his emotions. No one’s here to use the words against him. The fears behind them already grip him and keep his heart racing in the cage of his chest.

So Victor finally chokes out the words that claw and scratch against his ribs, croaking out, “Don’t leave me, Yuuri. I can’t make it alone, I don’t know what to do without you. Yuuri, _please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, none of this is medically accurate. This is purely for h/c reasons. I blame their lightning magic for everything not medically possible. Okay? Okay.
> 
> And I've had a pretty terrible week and am hardcore chugging the depresso, so I'm gonna go cuddle with Noona now (poor baby [was spayed this week](https://mobile.twitter.com/Kazul9/status/1357131393151639554)). I hope you're all doing well, and as always, thank you so much for reading and being awesome <3


	19. Chapter 19

Something’s wrong.

Victor sits up in his bed with the knowledge eating at his gut, striking cold and painful in his bones.

But there’s nothing out of place, as always. His bedroom within The Hive’s high walls might as well be a museum for all that he lives in it—most of the furniture and decoration is there to look pretty, to look expensive, but not to touch more than he has to in order to use it. In a way, he felt that this room always suited him, that they served the same purpose as the other.

Victor is a pretty, gilded thing. Illustrious and something meant to draw the eye, something meant to speak of death and power. But he’s only ever touched in combat, in punishment, or as a means to an end.

But something about that connection doesn’t feel right today.

For a moment he’s sure that something in the room must be out of place. It doesn’t match him; it doesn’t match his memories. But that’s wrong.

Victor leaves his bed and wanders around the room, fingers ghosting along surfaces and hands delicately picking through drawers.

Since he was a child, Victor was taught to be aware of his surroundings, to be alert to any change or inconsistency. Anything different means a threat and danger. His skin crawls to _know_ that something is so different so close to him—but this isn’t new. His grandfather used to run tests with Victor regularly. After all, anyone can come and go from Victor’s space whenever they please. He’s lucky that he’s typically a light sleeper and would catch them in the act—but he doesn’t remember waking up.

And he can’t find anything wrong.

His clothes are in their place. His damned cosmetics are all intact. Nothing’s been slipped into any cracks or crevices.

But something’s different. He knows something’s different.

“Mr. Nikiforov?”

Victor jumps—and that is not like him. Victor Nikiforov, prince to the throne of light and lightning, does _not_ jump. His grandfather would have his head—may still decide to, if he’s not careful.

“Yes?” Victor puts on the most earnest smile he can manage, sending a silent prayer to whatever deity is out there that his mistake either slips the servant’s mind, or they choose to take a little mercy on Victor.

He wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t, though. He’s well aware of what happens to those that have any mercy on him.

Mercy is the kiss of death in this place.

“It’s time for breakfast.” They bow their head and let their hair fall into their eyes, not so much as daring to look at Victor. “Do you need any assistance?”

“No.” Victor probably says the word a touch too fast, but at least that is more excusable than his ridiculousness earlier. What’s gotten into him? “Thank you.”

They give a slight nod before beginning their retreat. “It will begin in ten minutes.”

They don’t need to add on, “Be there. Or else.” Victor can hear the words perfectly fine in his grandfather’s voice in his head.

The door softly clicks shut, and Victor lets out a shuddering breath.

He hates it. He hates all of this. He hates having to put on a performance constantly whenever anyone is around. He hates being Victor fucking Nikiforov instead of just Victor, instead of Vitya—

Victor shakes his head and gasps in a sharp breath. Where did that thought come from? He would trust no one alive to call him by that name, to have anyone even slightly close to him. Not even Chris.

Victor frowns as he begins to lay out his outfit and shashka and changes. There’s something going on with Chris right now, isn’t there? Maybe he’s off on a mission from the captain of the household guard. It can’t be too important if Victor can’t remember it off the top of his head—after all, if he forgets something important, there are horrible consequences for him and everyone involved, and he will not let Chris be hurt due to Victor’s stupidity.

He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong, though. There’s an ache that comes along with Chris’s name that’s never been there before, not even when Victor desperately wished to reach out to his friend, to have a hand to hold and to hold his in turn.

By the time that he leaves his rooms, there’s a slight tremor to Victor’s hands. It’s ridiculous, and silly, and he will pay if anyone catches him.

But everything’s wrong. There’s absolutely something going on with Chris, and he has not even an inkling of what. He can’t even recall their last conversation. He doesn’t know the last thing that his grandfather said about Chris, he doesn’t remember the last move that his grandfather played in this game of chess that Victor’s bound to lose.

And it doesn’t help that the feeling of something being wrong is still there. It absolutely was not just Victor’s room, no single item or object that was at fault. Instead, it’s a sick, devouring feeling that gnaws beneath Victor’s skin and picks at his mind, tearing away the usual numb cycle to his thoughts that he’s carefully built and maintained for years while being held at the heart of The Hive. He’s normally safer than this in his own head. But he can’t stop thinking. He can’t stop _feeling_.

Every sense is on edge as Victor moves through the silent, motionless hallways of his grandfather’s mansion. It isn’t that there aren’t other people around, of course. Servants stand so still against the walls that Victor isn’t entirely sure that they’re breathing. People aren’t allowed to be human in this house. They’re decorations, just like everything else. You’d expect that a place so full of light, so full of a resource that’s so precious, should be full of life, should be celebrated.

But it’s empty.

It’s cold.

Just like Victor.

Or just like Victor _was_ , at least.

He pushes through the massive doors to the dining hall, taking in a breath and bracing himself to walk past more people as still as stone.

He knows that his grandfather does this to the servants mostly because he wants to show control, wealth, and power, but there’s a reason that he always puts so many of them with Victor while he’s alone, a reason that they’re allowed to turn their heads a little to follow his movements.

He’s watching Victor. Not with his own eyes, but through dozens of others. Victor doesn’t take a single step without his grandfather knowing it. He doesn’t draw a breath without his grandfather saying it’s okay. His heart doesn’t beat without Victor living every moment knowing that it’s probably just a matter of time before his grandfather stops it.

And that doesn’t bother him. He knows that he has value to his grandfather right now, and so long as it’s worth more to have him alive rather than dead, he’ll live.

Not that he knows _why_ he lives. Why he keeps fighting for his grandfather when it should be him running a blade through his grandfather’s stomach, ending the life that’s destroyed thousands of others.

Victor clenches his hands around his chair’s arms as he settles into it, his knuckles turning white. He can’t think like that. He _shouldn’t_ think like that. He has to protect Chris. Though there’s something going on with Chris…

He shakes his head slightly, pretending to toss his hair back as he forces his fingers to unclench from his chair and reach out to the utensils. The food is bland, not cooked very well. Probably what the servants eat. After all, Victor only eats the expensive, luxurious foods when they’re in public, like at parties. When he was a kid he tried to eat so much that he threw up once, and then there was the time he tried to sneak some back to his room—that ended particularly disastrously.

Victor doesn’t complain as he eats. He’s lucky that he can eat anything. He could be in the dungeons for the rest of his life for what he’s done.

He pauses, spoon halfway up to his mouth.

What he’s done? But he’s done nothing other than wake up in his own bed and follow his grandfather’s schedule. He hasn’t been late, or too slow, or too fast. Victor is perfect. He has to be.

But he’s done something.

As all of the glinting eyes lining the room stare at him, _glare_ at him, he’s sure of it.

He’s done something.

But he remembers _nothing._ He doesn’t remember what he did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. He doesn’t remember going to bed. He doesn’t remember the last mission that he’s had. He can remember his childhood, obviously, but he can’t figure out where those memories end and the gap begins. He sweats under the gaze of so many. His hand begins to tremble. His breathing comes faster and—

The doors at the other end of the hall burst open.

For a second all Victor can hear is one of the servants messing up and drawing in a gasp of shock. Then the chairs lining the long white table begins to scrape and rattle and push back, away from the table, as _something_ makes its way beneath it. Directly toward Victor. Moving _very fast_.

Victor springs to his feet, shoving his chair aside, but the _thing_ moves faster. There’s a streak of brown and black and pink, and suddenly Victor’s on his back on the ground, the breath knocked from his lungs.

There’s a scream. Something clatters. And something hot and wet drips onto Victor’s face as his eyes begin to focus, and land on…

A dog. A giant dog with lovely, soft brown curls, and black eyes that radiate intelligence behind them.

Victor’s felt this weight on him before.

He has no memory of it, but he knows that he has. Just like he knows that his entire life is off right now, just like he knows that the feelings that are running through him aren’t normal, just like he knows something’s wrong with Chris.

A name comes to his mind, vapors of memories forming something solid, something ridiculous and nonsensical but something Victor _knows_ fits.

“Makkachin?”

Her tongue lolls out and her tail wags for a moment before she gives a responding _boof_ and leaps from his chest, hopping around for a moment as Victor gets to his feet.

She _boofs_ again before walking a bit away and looking back, as if wanting Victor to follow.

And Victor wants to follow. Which is beyond silly. She’s a stray dog in the middle of a mansion, somehow.

Except that Victor knows her name. And despite everything in him feeling awful and wrong and off-center, this feels _right_. Not to mention, she might be able to lead him to—

Victor sucks in a deep breath, an aching pain clenching his chest. It hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, more than any cut, scrape, or bruise. More than that damned infection, even.

Infection?

Makka growls, leaping up onto the table with her hackles raised as Victor pulls himself out of his own head.

Guards enter the room, splitting around the table and marching toward them. They aren’t rushed or panicked, not for some mutt, but Victor still bares his teeth. They are _not_ laying a hand on Makka. No matter how much or how little he knows this dog, what he _does_ know is that his grandfather shouldn’t be able to lay a hand on her.

Victor leaps up onto the table to grab hold of Makkachin, but she’s already running through and knocking off all of the plates and silverware from the table. He can’t breathe for a second as he thinks of the punishment he’ll have because of all of the chaos and destruction that Makkachin’s creating. Victor will be punished for it, regardless of whose fault it is—not that he would have it any other way, he would never wish that on Makkachin. But everything’s happening on his watch, everything’s _wrong_ on his watch and worst of all _he’s_ not here.

He?

Victor hesitates for just a moment as he feels the ghost of a hand in his own, phantom fingers in his hair, and the ringing of a voice that he doesn’t recognize, but he _knows_.

And it’s that same feeling that tells him that Makkachin will know where this _he_ is.

Hesitation burns to ash in Victor’s mind, only fuel to run after Makkachin. He creates his own mess in his wake, the guards gaping after him; after all, the cold prince with a heart of glass is cruel and evil, but in a controlled way. In a precise and surgical way, a genius sort of way.

But what they don’t know is that Victor is _none_ of that.

As he runs after Makkachin, skidding through the halls and scrambling, sweating, his braid quickly turns into a mess of tangles as he avoids servants who can’t move out of the way fast enough for the dog and her human.

Victor’s as much of a mess inside as he feels on the outside. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t have a reason for doing it. This is just a dog, and though they’re precious animals, this puts himself and the last remaining person he cares about at risk.

Except, somehow, he knows something’s already wrong with Chris. It’s a feeling that his grandfather would send him to the dungeons for following, if he was feeling kind that day. But that’s just it, isn’t it?

This wrongness that echoes through him, as steady and faithful as his heart, doesn’t have to do with a threat to The Hive or his grandfather and his empire of fear.

It’s Victor.

Victor doesn’t belong here.

Victor doesn’t want to be here.

Victor shouldn’t be here.

The halls are quiet save for the scraping of claws and the thudding of shoes, but in Victor’s head it’s a symphony of feelings. He’s not used to this—not here, anyway. He doesn’t feel like this. He _can’t_ feel like this. Adrenaline pricks at his skin, fear and desperation squeeze his lungs, but a desperate _need_ keeps his legs moving without question, without the option for stopping.

The most he’s felt in years is the slight rush and satisfaction of winning a sparring match, or the distant trickle of familiar fear as his grandfather lays out a punishment. This is… it’s so _much_. To the point that he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t _want_ it. But he needs it. He needs to be able to find _him_ , he needs to remember _him_ and then—

Makkachin barrels through a set of doors, barging into a courtyard with Victor only steps behind her. He’s walked through here a few times, a plain stone area with some maintained greenery—a show of wealth. And in the middle there’s a fountain, intricate and complicated in a way that almost doesn’t make sense to Victor’s mind.

But he doesn’t get too long to think about it as Makka bounds up to the fountain and leaps up, bracing her front paws on the edge of the water and looking down before turning and barking at Victor, even more urgent than before.

Victor’s legs shake beneath him as he walks. He wants to blame the exertion, but he knows better. His heart beats so loudly that it’s all that he can hear, and he _knows_ with a certainty that quakes every inch of his being that he’s not ready for this. That he’ll never be ready. But he can’t stay away, because he knows what Makka will lead him to.

And as he peers into the water, he’s proven right.

There’s a man under the water. He lays at the bottom of the fountain, his skin a little paler than it should be. He has scars across his skin, his chest bare and shirtless and showing off a body that’s soft but toned, a strength in him that Victor knows not to underestimate. He has black hair floating around his face, dark as the night and a little too long, a little too messy. It’s lovely though, and Victor’s fingers twitch to reach out and touch it. To brush his thumbs along those soft cheekbones, to watch those long, lovely eyelashes flutter open—

His eyes snap open. Warm brown peers at him, pleading, begging.

Victor gasps and steps back, both hands grasping at his chest as he struggles to get to his lungs to expand, his vision blurring as one word echoes around his mind over and over.

 _Yuuri_.

Victor stumbles forward, shoving his hands into the water.

Nothing’s there.

“Looking for this?”

Victor turns, even though he knows better, even though that voice is more familiar and dreaded than any other voice he’s ever known before. Makkachin growls, and Victor almost praises her before he _sees_.

His grandfather stands at the doorway, holding Yuuri up by the throat as water streams off of him, eyes wide and afraid as he gapes like a fish, unable to breathe.

“Let him go!” Victor’s voice breaks, and it takes everything in him not to wince. He knows _better than this_.

“Weak,” his grandfather states, lips curling into a smile.

“Let him _go_!” Victor falls to his knees as the world starts to sway around him, his limbs going weak as if _he’s_ the one being strangled.

Yuuri’s arm lifts in jerking, weak movements, reaching for Victor.

“Stupid,” his grandfather snarls, hand squeezing tighter around Yuuri’s throat.

Yuuri makes a noise, a sad, pathetic thing that doesn’t belong to someone as strong and magnificent as him.

“ _Let him go_!” Victor screams so loudly that his throat hurts, that the entire world blurs, the only thing in focus being the hand around Yuuri’s throat.

“ _Coward_!” his grandfather booms, the ground shaking beneath them as his hand tightens even more, a sharp _crunch_ ringing through the courtyard as Victor screams so loud that it overwhelms the racing of his heart, that it burns his eardrums, his vision goes dark and—

Victor gasps in a breath, opening his eyes and gasping in a breath through his sore, ragged throat.

Shit, was he screaming out loud? He could have attracted something in the night, some creature or predator or worse than that, other humans. He’s not even sure what the threat would be without Yuuri, which makes it even worse—

 _Yuuri_.

Victor sucks in a breath and blinks a few times, his eyes slowly focusing with the light of the stars and the burning embers of the fire he’d built.

Yuuri’s still right here with him, and he can see a mass of Makka’s curls on his other side. It was a dream. Just a dream.

But why does it feel so _real_?

A sob chokes up Victor’s throat, and he bites his lip to hold it inside even as tears burn at his eyes. He wants to cry, he _wishes_ he could cry, but he can’t. When he saw Yuuri strangled in his grandfather’s grip…

Victor reaches out with shaking hands and gently touches Yuuri’s neck, unblemished and warm under his touch, trying and trying to feel for a pulse but he can’t feel anything and he needs— he _needs—_

Victor pulls Yuuri close, shifting around so that he can press his ear to Yuuri’s chest and— _Oh_.

He’s breathing.

His heartbeat is steady, healthy.

Yuuri’s okay.

Victor’s breathing steadies into a shaky imitation of Yuuri’s, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

His grandfather was standing before him again, he had _Yuuri_ and he was so _useless_ —

No. No, he couldn’t keep going if he just let Yuuri die. No matter how unsure he is about _everything_ , that much he’s sure of.

He’s getting them to Agape.

Yuuri is going to _live_.

Victor’s grandfather will never so much as _touch_ Yuuri if it’s the last thing that Victor does. And Victor won’t go down so easily. Not while his grandfather’s still out there, lurking at the horizon. No matter what Agape thinks of him. Because for the first time that he can remember, he’s feeling more than his usual apathy, his emptiness and lack of life.

Victor wants to live.

He’s _going_ to live.

And he’ll make sure Yuuri lives, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I! Love!! Amnesia!!! I think I only have one amnesia fic (it’s a sequel to Resplendent) and it isn’t on AO3 so you would never know, but I gotta get my fix from time to time. Anyway, Victor deserves to love his life and we are gonna GET THERE!!!
> 
> Anyhow! I've gotta run in a few minutes, so throwing this up there real quick! As always, thank you so, so, so much for reading!!! <3 <3 <3


	20. Chapter 20

Every part of Victor aches. His back and his arms and his legs ache from having to carry the weight of most of their supplies—Makkachin is _such_ a good girl and almost seems excited to be carrying some of their things—along with a limp body. And that last thing weighs on Victor’s soul, too, adding to the weight of every footfall and the struggle of every breath.

Yuuri murmurs and shifts sometimes, and they’re the only signs of life that Victor has to go by as his own breathing and heartbeat consume his hearing. It’s tempting to stop every few feet and check for Yuuri’s pulse, to make sure he’s breathing, but he can’t. Or, well, he _shouldn’t_. They’re finally getting close to Agape

At least, Victor’s pretty sure they are.

When they were traveling, Yuuri had pointed out and told him about landmarks coming up on their path forward. Victor’s already seen the boulder that’s taller than him and shaped like a closed fist, and he’s pretty sure they just passed the tree with an old knot shaped like a heart. It was a little lopsided and odd-shaped, but all Victor can think about is how Yuuri blushed a bit and tripped over the word when he told Victor what to look for. For being a clever and powerful warrior, Yuuri’s cute sometimes.

And Victor misses that deeply.

Oddly, that’s the most painful burden to bear. Not any of the weight dragging on his soul, or physically on his back, but to put one foot in front of the other and to keep walking when Yuuri’s not there to wrap his hand around Victor’s, to answer all of his silly questions and keep him busy with new lessons. At least Makkachin’s there to help him watch for predators, or else Victor might be tempted to give up.

He wouldn’t, though. He’d just think more about it, and he might be more likely to fail.

Because so long as Yuuri’s still breathing, he won’t stop. And Yuuri said that they were only a day or two from getting to Agape’s hideout, so he can’t so much as rest. The only time he pauses is when Makka seems to be tired or hungry—not that there’s much food left. Victor has no idea how Yuuri made it work until then; he has no idea how Yuuri let himself get to this point without Victor noticing. Hell, Victor’s at least been eating _something_ for days and he can already add the clenching of his stomach to his list of aches and pains.

He wishes that he weren’t still so tired from recovering from his injury. He wishes that he had Yuuri’s stamina. Without him holding Yuuri back, maybe they would have made it to Agape by now. As it is, Victor can only focus on the narrow path, dirt and stone shifting beneath him as he slowly trudges along. Blisters build and burst on his feet where he didn’t even know he _could_ get blisters.

And he keeps walking.

The sun starts to fall, and Victor’s heart sinks down with it. He was hoping to make it today. Not for himself, but for Yuuri’s sake. Victor knows absolutely nothing about what’s going on with him or why, and he doesn’t know how long Yuuri has left.

All Victor knows is that he needs help, and _soon_.

He knows that walking through the night won’t help him, but Makkachin doesn’t stop trotting forward, and Victor can’t bring himself to stop moving one foot in front of the other. Even as the sun paints pink and blue and purple across the sky, as if things should be beautiful and pleasant as the colder temperatures start to set in and Yuuri still shows no signs of rousing. Not that Victor even knows what to look for so far as Yuuri getting better—or worse.

They’re on a thin path leading up the mountain now and Victor knows that finding firewood will take time and light. They might survive without a fire, but he knows better than to risk it.

Victor’s steps slow, and he heaves in breaths. His arms might be about to give out; he’s not entirely sure because he’s shaking and sweating but freezing from the rapidly sinking temperatures. He has to stop. He needs to _stop._

And then something gleams in the distance.

Victor finally stops, feet shuffling to a halt as he stares at a light in the distance. At first he’s sure that he’s hallucinating, or maybe it’s some ruins of the old world catching the reflection of the setting sun.

But then there’s another light.

And another.

And another.

For a moment Victor can’t make sense of what he’s looking at. It’s getting darker by the second, but more and more lights shine to life in a slight crevice in the mountain, tucked almost out of sight if you weren’t at Victor’s exact angle.

He remembers reading about fireflies once, in a book. It was probably his book of fairytales; it seems too romantic a piece of history for his grandfather to let him consume. But this reminds him of that in a way. When the darkness falls, the light comes out. They don’t dart around and blink like he knows fireflies do, but instead shine steady, like a guiding light. A lighthouse.

No, _buildings_.

Victor’s only ever seen the fogged dimness of the dark district, the blinding and constant bright of the light district, and the natural light of the wilds. He knows that cities used to be powered by electricity supplied by nature and not human energy—human _life_. But he never bothered to imagine the twinkling of light as it seeped through windows and the occupants moved about, or maybe lounged about with friends and family or a good book.

This is—

This is unreal.

This isn’t just a rebellion. This isn’t a fortress, or a base camp. This isn’t a prison like The Hive is.

This is a town.

This is a _home_.

Something in Victor’s chest cracks and shatters at just the concept existing somewhere out there for some people to be able to experience. That _Yuuri_ got to experience it. Victor can’t even imagine what that would be like, to have a home not full of fear and terror. To have a place of comfort, to have _people_ of comfort.

But he can’t dwell on that. Not right now. Not while Yuuri wastes away to nothing on his back.

Makkachin barks and Victor nods back, the both of them running forward without another moment’s hesitation.

It’s so close.

They can make it.

Yuuri can be saved, he’ll live, and he can be okay _right now_.

Victor’s thighs burn and ache and shake, threatening to give out from underneath him, but he keeps pushing them to. Even as he feels like his muscles are about to fail him, he feels _light_. Is this what it’s truly like to feel hope? To know that sometimes it’s not going to be the worst case scenario that happens?

Because a part of Victor was sure that Yuuri’s heart would stop on his watch. That he’d lose a life that’s not only precious to him, but priceless to the world at large. And Victor’s let so many fragile, beautiful souls be extinguished in his time with his grandfather. Maybe Victor would have deserved to lose someone so meaningful to him, but Yuuri deserves to live. Just like Chris did, and—

And now Yuuri _can_.

Victor can’t undo the past; he can’t right his wrongs. There’s no possibleway that he can. But he can do his best to stop committing any more horrible atrocities in the future. For Chris. For everyone who had loved ones and families who grieve for them. For everyone still trapped in his grandfather’s tyranny.

Yuuri is like this town; a light in the darkness that is this entire world. He’s a single person that’s a force to be reckoned with. He’s _everything_ that Victor’s grandfather wants to destroy, and the epitome of hope and love for Victor.

For once, Victor can do good.

He _will_ do good.

The path gets steeper as they go and Victor has to slow. He has trouble putting one foot in front of the other, much less moving quickly, even as the chill sets in. Every inch of him aches to give in to gravity and the weight pressed to his back, to just collapse and sleep.

But the lights keep getting closer and Makka only slows enough for Victor to keep up, prancing from foot to foot whenever she has to pause and wait.

It seems impossible that something like this can even exist. The Hive is absolutely still the largest human settlement on Earth after the end of the old world, but this has to house more than a dozen or two resistance members.

Does Victor’s grandfather know that Agape is so much more than they ever expected?

It’s taking seconds between each of Victor’s steps. The lights are looming over him but it’s still so _far_ —

Electricity cracks through the air, something so light and staticky that Victor wouldn’t have even noticed if he didn’t _recognize_ it.

He drops before he even thinks about it, his legs giving out when he tries to crouch, the weight of Yuuri’s body on his back shoving his face against the ground and scraping it against the rocks and dirt.

Then there’s the snap and hiss of electricity striking right through where he was just standing.

Where he and _Yuuri_ were just standing.

Victor gasps in a breath and strains to lift himself and Yuuri off the ground, even to just get Yuuri off of him and away from whoever just carelessly almost fried them, but his shaking limbs won’t get him even an inch off the ground.

No.

 _No_.

He wasn’t supposed to fuck this up. It was supposed to be something _good_. They should have seen Yuuri and—

And it’s getting way too dark out to make out his features. It’s hard to make out anything in the twilight hours.

God, Victor’s so _stupid_. He let his worries rule his decisions again, and now Yuuri’s going to die. His worst fear will be realized because he took the fool’s way out and kept walking when he should have camped and waited until morning. They made it so close and now the both of them are going to die anyway.

Makkachin starts to bark as Victor distantly becomes aware of footsteps approaching. Multiple people. He can’t figure out how many with his heart hammering and Yuuri draped across him, but he can’t handle fighting one person right now, much less _more_.

He tries to shout for Makka to stop, to run, but all that comes out are wheezing breaths.

“They have a dog? Who the hell has a _dog_?”

“ _We_ have dogs. And it looks like we might be taking this one too—“

“ _Fuck_ , that’s Yuuri! You fucking fried Yuuri!”

There’s a scrambling of noises, Makkachin growling for a moment before she goes quiet, and the weight of Yuuri lifts off of Victor’s back.

 _Yuuri_.

Victor gasps in air and reaches out blindly with shaking fingers until he finds one of Yuuri’s arms, and then his hand where he clutches and holds on tight.

It belatedly strikes him that it could be any of these other people’s arms, that it might not be Yuuri’—but Victor knows that it’s him. He knows those calluses and that warmth. He knows Yuuri, even if not as well as he’d like.

“Holy shit. Yuuri got him. He fucking got the _Nikiforov prince_.”

Victor clutches Yuuri’s hand tighter. He should say something. He needs to say something.

“Victor?”

Victor looks up at the sound of his name, but finds that the man who said it is looking at someone else, as if he needs to clarify who the Nikiforov prince is.

If he had the breath, Victor would laugh. There are only two Nikiforovs that are widely recognized and loathed. Who else would it be? No one is as feared as Victor. No one is as hated as Victor.

Except for his grandfather.

And no one hates and fears _him_ as much as Victor does.

The man looks down at Victor and for one instant, there’s a flicker of recognition in Victor’s mind, something familiar in those almost-black eyes. His skin is darker than Victor’s or Yuuri’s, his hair cut short and—

Victor can’t place him.

But there’s something different in this man’s eyes. Something _other_ than hate.

And then the words catch up with Victor. “He— Yuuri got me? He was after me?”

The man with the dark eyes frowns at Victor. “Yeah. We’re all after you. Yuuri’s been hoping for your head.”

There’s a snort.

“Now is _not_ the time,” someone hisses; a girl, from the sounds of it.

Victor knows that Yuuri wanted him dead. They’ve even talked about it. But a part of him _hurts_ to hear it confirmed, even though he’s more than aware that he deserves that opinion. The fact that he’s still alive while surrounded by members of Agape, already defeated and weak, is impossible for him to even wrap his mind around.

“You’re right.” The words are a snarl as someone walks up next to the man— A boy. A teenager, with hair almost as golden as Victor’s grandfather. “Now’s the time to kill the bastard. The world would be better off without any Nikiforovs. I want to hear you _beg_ —”

“Yurio, that’s _enough_ ,” the man snaps, putting an arm out to stop the teen from moving any closer.

“Why?” Yurio shouts. “Even Yuuri was proud when he left a scar on him that one time. This is our chance to actually make a _difference_ —”

“No.” The man says the word so firmly that the kid goes quiet.

A girl—older than Yurio, but not maybe not as old as the one standing in front of Victor—with fiery red hair comes up and pulls Yurio back, despite the kid trying to jerk away as best he can.

The man continues to stare at Victor. Victor looks back at him, having nothing to hide. And those _eyes_ ; Victor knows them. Maybe they’re a bit lighter than black in proper light without a bright city behind him. Maybe grey or—

Victor sucks in a breath, eyes widening as the memories finally click into place. “You’re The Rodent that snuck into the warehouse.”

There’s a blade pressed to Victor’s forehead. Between the exhaustion and shock, he’s not sure how it got there. All he knows is that it’s long with a wicked curve and jagged edges, attached to a spear, and The Rodent is holding the sharp point of it to Victor’s skin.

“ _Rodent_?” the man spits. “Is that what we are to you?”

Victor plasters on a smile before he can even think of it, trying to placate the only way he knows how. “Your mask—I don’t know many more animals than we see in the city. I didn’t mean to insult. It was quite well made, you know. All of your masks are well crafted. It’s a statement that no one forgets—especially not the Nikiforovs!”

Victor snaps his mouth shut, his smile trembling. Where the hell did his filter go? Where did the smooth, suave man that charmed anyone he set eyes on go? Did Yuuri steal them?

No. No, Yuuri hasn’t stolen anything from him. Nothing that Victor hasn’t handed over willingly—Yuuri’s been careful about that.

The man pulls the blade back slightly. “Fine. If I’m a rodent, then you’re a wasp in the beehive. But… You saved my life.”

“Wait, you aren’t going to show this fucker _mercy_ , are you?” Yurio pulls at the girl’s grip again as he bares his teeth—but she’s stronger than she looks, and she holds him firm.

“I…” The man swallows. “Maybe I’ll let him go.”

“Let him _go_?” The girl’s mouth falls open. “You can see the state he’s in. He won’t last a day!”

“I know.” The man grips the shaft of his spear tighter.

Victor should care about this, should be worried about his fate.

He doesn’t care, though.

“What about the dog? Makkachin?” Victor pushes himself more upright, gripping Yuuri’s hand tighter and pulling himself closer to Yuuri. “And _Yuuri_ —”

“ _Don’t you touch him_!” The kid breaks free from the girl’s grip, footsteps loud on the rocky ground as he stomps toward Victor.

“Mila, grab him!” The man calls out.

“I’m trying, but he’s—“ she snaps as she throws herself forward and narrowly misses grabbing hold of him.

Victor doesn’t care about any of that, though. He deserves whatever this brat of a kid wants to deal out to him. A part of Victor always breaks to see fighters so young out in the field, and he knows that maybe one of his actions killed this kid’s parents.

What he cares about is that Yuuri is laying between him and Yurio, and the teen seems to not care about what comes between him and his anger.

Adrenaline spikes through Victor, sharp and electric in a way that reminds him of lightning as he throws his body over Yuuri’s, curling around hi, and daring to brush his fingers against Yuuri’s skin, let himself have one last, desperate touch before the punishment of living the life as he has catches up to him.

He deserves it.

He knows he does.

He just wishes he could thank Yuuri. Not just for taking care of his external wounds, but for holding him tightly as something inside him bled, for holding his hand when he desperately needed an anchor before he could find his own way back to shore.

He only regrets that he couldn’t have been better for Yuuri.

There are too many voices to make sense of any words, but the screeching of pure, unbridled rage manages to reach Victor’s ears, and it’s close. Too close to do anything about.

He closes his eyes.

Something collides with the side of his head and the world slips from his senses as he tumbles into vivid nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAKKACHIN IS FINE AND UNHURT!!!!!! They just smell vaguely of Yuuri and she was alert and cautious until Yurio was an ass and then she started barking and would have attacked but Mila and Phichit got Yurio under control. Nothing bad will ever happen to Makkachin EVER AGAIN
> 
> But we're finally at Agape, I wonder what will happen next and who we'll meet~ ouo
> 
> As always, thank you all SO, SO much for reading!!! I hope you're all doing okay even with the 2020 insanity continuing into 2021


	21. Chapter 21

Victor gasps in a breath, attempting to sit up as the world spins around him.

There’s something very important. Something that he needs to… say? Do? _Something_. He needs to move.

But he can’t see. The world spins and tilts around him, his stomach flipping in a way that threatens to bring up whatever bile is in there. Victor grips at the bedding, sheets wrinkling in his grip. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? He hasn’t slept on sheets in who knows how long. First it was a rotten, debris-ridden floor, and then it was the sleeping bag, all tight and cozy with Yuuri. He’d had that nightmare about sleeping in a bed, but—

But now it’s reality.

Victor tries to suck in breaths, but he feels like he’s getting nothing as all he hears is a shallow, rasping sound. This is exactly what he feared, isn’t it? They found him. They brought him “home.” To The Hive. To his grandfather. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll wish that he were dead, that the infection had killed him and he’d never known the warmth of Yuuri’s kindness.

_Yuuri._

Did they get him, too? Victor had been carrying him on his back and then he can’t put the pieces together. He’d found Agape, right? Maybe they just turned Victor over to The Hive and everyone’s safe. Or else Victor somehow lead The Hive to Agape and he destroyed _everything_ —

“Whoa, hey!” There are hands on Victor’s shoulders, shaking him a bit—but he can’t focus enough to see who’s standing over him. He doesn’t _want_ to focus. Maybe his own body will stop his heartbeat in self-preservation so that his grandfather can’t get his hands on Victor. “Breathe!”

Victor would laugh if he could. Telling him to breathe doesn’t help anything, not when he’s trying to take air into lungs that seem to reject oxygen; not when he doesn’t know who’s alive and who’s dead and who’s even holding him down.

But he’s not going to get any answers unless he can focus, and now that he’s thought about Yuuri, Victor needs to know that he’s okay. Because right now all he can think about is his grandfather laying his filthy, gnarled fingers on Yuuri and—

Victor forces himself to breathe slower, trying to push back against his racing thoughts. His grandfather wouldn’t let Yuuri live unless he had a use for him—he’s been too wanted for too long. It wouldn’t be a quick death, but it would be quicker than Victor’s, and he takes some comfort in that.

Besides, Agape would do everything they could to keep their most skilled member safe, especially when Victor’s handed himself over—there’s no single person that rivals Yuuri anymore. Victor would worry that they might treat Yuuri like something disposable, but he knows better. With how Yuuri talks about this place, they seem to value each other in ways Victor can’t even begin to comprehend. Yuuri’s probably resting in a bed somewhere, carefully tucked in and receiving the very best medical care they can give out here. Makkachin is probably being a good girl and staying curled up with him, keeping Yuuri company. He probably has his family with him.

What must that be like? Having a family that’s kind and caring enough to raise someone like Yuuri. A silly part of Victor aches to meet them, to talk with them, to thank them for giving Yuuri what he deserves and trying to do good in a world so dark and desolate.

But Victor’s their enemy. Yuuri may have given him a chance, but you don’t get this far leading a rebellion by trusting one of the most hated people known to mankind. If Victor ever met Yuuri’s family, they’d stab him before they asked any questions—as they should. If they ever met _Victor’s_ family…

Well, he doesn’t need to think about that. Especially not as the room begins to swim back into view, the darkness and static that was consuming him beginning to fade and quiet. The room is silent other than his own rattling breaths—but he remembers that there was a voice in this room with him, far too present to be something that just happened in his head.

And he is absolutely _not_ in The Hive.

The sheets are worn and rough in a way that he wouldn’t feel in The Hive; if he were in his room they’d be silky smooth, and if he were in the dungeon, he wouldn’t have so much as a rag. The mattress is a bit lumpier, and the clothing on his back obviously isn’t tailored to his form. Nothing about this is bad in general—but the fact that he recognizes none of it?

It means he’s not in The Hive, not stuck in the worst case scenario.

He’s also not dead, which is theoretically a good thing.

Which leaves one option: He’s inside of the Agape base.

It was bad enough in theory to be captured by _one_ of his enemies, but to be surrounded by maybe dozens of them, all wanting to kill him…

He’s always lived around those who hated him but couldn’t hurt him without facing consequences. Taking away those consequences should be interesting.

“You okay there?”

Victor glances up, keeping his face carefully blank as he finds The Rodent standing at the side of his small bed, staring down at him with wide eyes. He isn’t exactly concerned, or afraid, but there’s something unsettled in his expression.

It makes Victor want to shrink back, or to smile and pretend that nothing ever happened, that he didn’t wake up and—and have to deal with _whatever_ that was. But he’s not sure how he’ll need to play this yet, because there’s something that he needs from this conversation and he’s not taking any chances until he gets it.

“Who would have thought that the infamous, invincible Victor Nikiforov would have panic attacks.” The Rodent raises an eyebrow as he seems to settle a bit—but he’s not entertained by the fact like Victor’s grandfather or any of the people that serve him would have been.

“Panic attack?” Victor frowns—then shakes his head. Whatever that is doesn’t matter. “Regardless, I have to be honest—I wasn’t sure that I was going to wake up again after how you were talking.”

The Rodent gives a one-shouldered shrug, probably casual on purpose. “Consider us even for you sparing me in The Hive.”

Now that makes sense to Victor. And it’s a bit of a relief, too—if The Rodent had felt guilted into helping him for however long Victor’s here, Victor wouldn’t have been able to trust him. But rejecting his assistance would be a terrible mistake, too. At least Victor knows what to expect from an enemy.

So Victor gives a sharp nod, regretting it instantly as a sharp pain pounds through his head and he winces. He vaguely wonders how large of a bump that kid left when he kicked him—but it really doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s here to look his best and charm everyone. It would be ideal, yes, but obviously _some_ people are more willing to kick him in the head while he’s down than listen to him talk.

Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about these sorts of things when he’s so helpless and laying here with all of the cards yanked out of his hands. He can be as charming and as kind as he wants, but no one will trust him.

Assuming he even talks to anyone else.

“Then what are you going to do with me now?” Victor raises his eyebrows a little, honestly curious. He isn’t sure what he’d do with himself if the situation was reversed.

The Rodent stares him down, eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t gotten the full story, and no offense, but I’m not trusting whatever you tell me. You might have saved my life, but you’re also a Nikiforov. Can you give me a reason to trust you?”

Victor’s heart picks up his pace, and he can’t help but grip his sheets again, so tightly that he knows his knuckles are bone-white.

If this man doesn’t know the full story from the only side that he’d trust, that means that at the very least, Yuuri isn’t awake. At the very worst—

“Is Yuuri okay?” Victor blurts out, his hands trembling and— _Fuck it_ , Victor doesn’t care. What does it matter what anyone thinks of him anymore? “Is he still— Is he conscious? Does he have Makkachin with him? The dog?”

The Rodent blinks a few times, staring at Victor as he begins to sweat and his worries only grow. “Why?”

It’s Victor’s turn to take a moment to think and to process. That would be a weird question for him to ask, wouldn’t it? The Nikiforov prince asking if the greatest threat to his life is alive? The other members of Agape probably know the story that Yuuri had told Victor, of course. They can understand why Yuuri would show him mercy.

But the Prince of Ice and Lightning? The face of death and despair to most people in the dark district?

It almost makes Victor himself question why—but that isn’t really a question. Not when his grandfather holds none of his loyalty now that Victor’s found other anchors to ground him. Not when he’s found love and kindness and warmth, given almost thoughtlessly and absolutely selflessly, so far from his family’s legacy.

Not when it’s Yuuri.

“You can do whatever you want to me.” Victor’s voice trembles slightly, and he should stop it but he _can’t_. “Hang me, gut me, burn me alive. I’ve probably been through worse. But Yuuri, he— He _saved_ me.” Victor slowly untangles his fingers from the blanket and reaches for the oversized shirt that he’s been put into, drawing up the hem and showing the gnarled, fresh pink of his latest scar. “He blew up the outpost I was sent to secure. All of the soldiers I travelled with were killed; it was only him and me. We fought, and I— He stabbed me. I offered…”

Victor swallows and closes his eyes for a moment. “I offered him anything that he wanted. I offered him myself. And he stayed with me. After it became infected, he _stayed_. And when I was better, he took me with him.”

“Ah.” The Rodent leans back, eyes a bit less suspicious. “So it’s the same sort of deal with him then, is it? He saved your life, and you saved his.”

“No,” Victor snaps, then instantly regrets it as The Rodent’s eyes widen. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “No. Yuuri said— He said he saved me in exchange for me already saving him.”

The Rodent’s mouth pops open, hanging there for a second before he says, “Yuuri _told you that_? No, you had to remember it. Right?”

“I don’t remember a thing.” Victor shakes his head. “I would suspect that he just made it up if he weren’t Yuuri.”

A small smile twitches at The Rodent’s face, just a split second before it’s gone. “Then you’re even and you’re free to do your own thing. Which makes it suspicious that you wound up carrying a malnourished and obviously exhausted Yuuri to the headquarters of your worst enemy.”

Victor sighs. This man really isn’t good at this—his logic is ridiculously flawed. “Yuuri told me where to go _days_ ago. If I wanted to betray him—and you—I would have turned around and started the other way right then and there. Taken all of the food and run for it.”

He doesn’t have to mention the fact that there was no way in hell he would have survived without Yuuri. This man’s just looking for excuses to condemn him.

The Rodent sighs. “Then why was Yuuri starved half to death?”

Victor perks up. “Was? Is he okay?”

“ _Focus_.” The man bares his teeth. “Why are you so obsessed with him?”

Obsessed? Victor isn’t _obsessed_. He’s seen obsession before; he’s seen it drive people mad with lust and power and need. Victor wouldn’t do Yuuri that injustice. “I care about him. And he— I’m fairly sure he cares about me.”

The rodent huffs out a breath. “Yuuri can be a bit of an oblivious asshole, but yeah, he’s always had a soft spot for you. Which is why I think you’re taking advantage of him.”

Rage flares hot and bright in Victor, burning at just the _idea_ of taking advantage of Yuuri like that—and then quells in an instant.

Victor toys with hearts. He’s known for it—even if his targets rarely put together the political side of things. He’s a playboy. A seducer and someone set on a pedestal to lure in. He can’t say that isn’t what he is that because that’s _exactly_ who he built himself up to be. Yuuri’s already said that they have people on the inside of The Hive, and he’s been too thorough with this facade for anyone to think any different of him. Chris even—

Victor glances down as a sharp pain strikes through his chest, hitting him harder than he expected. He _can’t_ focus on his life in The Hive right now, as much as he’d like to wallow in regret and grief.

“I can’t prove to you how I feel,” Victor says carefully, trying to read The Rodent as he speaks. “But you have to see that there’s nothing I can do with any information on Yuuri being okay or not. I’m obviously being held captive, I’m still weak from healing from my injury and then traveling. Even if I weren’t, it’s me versus an entire city of people. I’m not about to try and wander around a place I don’t know to go and find him. And even if I did, what would I do?”

“Kill him,” The Rodent suggests easily.

Victor gapes, the horror striking across his face like a physical blow. He knows that it’s not a far-fetched idea in theory—Victor’s tried to kill Yuuri more times than he can count on his hands. But that was when Yuuri was The Fox, and Victor was The Nikiforov Heir.

And Victor can’t help who he is, but he can help how he sees and feels about Yuuri.

“I would never hurt him. I _could_ never hurt him. Believe whatever else you want of me—I know the insidious things that I’ve done have earned it. But I will _not_ hurt Yuuri. Never.” Victor clenches his jaw shut, stopping himself from saying more—too much.

The Rodent frowns. “And why would I believe that? Did you _lure_ him into some sort of relationship?”

Victor takes a shaking breath, trying to quell the burning rage at just the idea of what this man keeps presenting him with. “No. I asked Yuuri to help me, and I gave him my will and myself in return. Anything that he gave me after that, he gave me of his own choice. You know that things are too complicated in this situation to be cut and dry.”

The Rodent stares at him for a long moment, staying silent. Victor stares right back this time. He knows he should stand down; he’s had his pride destroy his chances in moments like this before. But the alternative is admitting that this man can’t trust what he’s said, and he refuses to enforce that idea. Let him believe whatever else he wants of Victor’s character, let him be sure of all of the crimes he has and hasn’t committed.

But Victor won’t stand even the thought of anyone hurting Yuuri.

It strikes him that maybe he shouldn’t be so attached to a person who was an enemy not that long ago. After all, he’s never met anyone who hasn’t either betrayed him or left him in one way or another. Yuuri might be manipulating him on some level. It’s harder to just push those thoughts away and _know_ that won’t happen with Yuuri away from him right now.

But it’s only a thought. It doesn’t sink into his reality, instead dissipating by like a stray cloud in an otherwise empty sky.

Logically, maybe it would have been a good idea for Yuuri to purposefully make Victor join their rebellion. Victor’s a valuable asset, sure—but he’s done so much damage against these people that, obviously, none of them will _ever_ trust him.

And Yuuri has never asked Victor for anything more than was willing to give. There’s a reason that Yuuri brings out something in Victor that he’s never had a chance to feel before.

The Rodent crosses his arms, leaning back a bit as something hardens in his eyes. “Listen here, Nikiforov. I love Yuuri—we all do here. He might not ever admit it, but he’s worth infinitely more than any of his skills. If you hurt him at all, you will die in the most horrific way imaginable. Do you understand?”

“I do.” Victor’s been told of the horrific ways that his grandfather would kill him if he were any less useful; he doesn’t need to spen time imagining it. Nor does he need to think about if it’s worth it—if anything, he agrees that he deserves to suffer if he’s hurt Yuuri.

Something loosens in the man’s stiff frame, even if his voice stays firm. “Don’t think that’s permission to do or say anything. You’re still staying in this room while you recover from your concussion, and there are enough trained warriors watching you to take out half The Hive’s army. You’re skilled, but you’re weaponless, and you’re absolutely alone and isolated. You do what we say, when we say it. Understood?”

Victor nods. “Yes, perfectly.”

“Good.” The man lets out a sigh, his arms falling at his side. “I’ll verify what you’ve told me with Yuuri when he wakes up and we’ll make a decision from there. Got it?”

“Yes, I—” The man’s words finally sink into Victor’s cluttered mind, stopping his words before they can form. His throat clogs, every part of him freezing. If Yuuri’s going to wake up, he’s alive. And he’s doing well enough that this man can easily insinuate that he _will_ be okay enough to verify Yuuri’s story.

He’s going to be okay.

No matter what happens to Victor, Yuuri will be okay.

The Rodent mutters something in that language he used back in The Hive—that Victor’s heard all of Agape use—before he turns around and heads toward the door to the room. “The name’s Phichit, by the way. Not ‘ _Rodent_.’”

“Thank you,” Victor manages to choke out, and he means those words for much more than the decency of being able to address him by a name.

Phichit pauses with his hand on the door handle, turning around to give a stiff sort of nod. His expression is soft, though. Something that Victor can’t quite understand, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless if it got him the confirmation that Yuuri’s okay.

Victor nods back, leaving his head a little bowed as Phichit leaves the room and lets Victor sit in the quiet with only his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was legitimately in bed about to fall asleep when I sat up straight and realized I never posted a Toungry chapter on AO3 aksjdnaksjndaksdjn I am a FOOL, pls forgive me and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm gonna go attempt to pass out and maybe get some sleep again :'D

**Author's Note:**

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